Narcotic Casserole
by sophie1670
Summary: The tale of Tim's first fugitive. A blast from Tim's past is back and Raylan gets to assist in trying to avoid the explosions.
1. Chapter 1

Alright, I've had this in my head for a while now (months) unfinished and collecting dust, so I thought, "Hey, new season's about to start! Let's make space in the brain for new storylines and Wynn Duffy hilarity!" So, here you are, my first_ Justified_ fanfic for public consumption/flogging.

I own the Lidet and Sullivan families but the names you know belong to Leonard and Yost. Also, the time line of the show is wonky, so I'm calling this 3 years ago but it's really just 6 months before Raylan joined the office.

3 years ago

"At 1:20 pm, the transport carrying Alison Riley, Gale Pulichak, Clare Lidet, and Marie Anne Lisbon and a rented Toyota crashed. Dossiers on each prisoner are available from Deputy Brooks. Lisbon is a violent offender, Riley and Pulichak are druggies, Lidet is white-collar. Lisbon is our priority; she has killed before and will again. She is armed and dangerous, Deputy Nelson's sidearm is missing-" Chief Deputy Art Mullen continued at the scene alongside Daniel Boone National Park, where a Corolla had veered into the SUV, totaling itself.

Deputies Nelson and Welford had radioed about the Corolla before the crash so authorities were on scene quick. Quick enough to see Nelson and Welford both handcuffed to their respective doors and all 4 women were gone with Nelson's gun.

There was blood with the broken glass on the backseats. Given Welford's concussion from his head hitting the passenger window, and the way the SUV rolled and slid down the embankment, the injured prisoners wouldn't get far but they'd be more unpredictable.

"Gutterson," Art said at the end of it, "over here."

"Yes, sir," Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson, former Ranger, current sniper, and 3-month vet of the Lexington US Marshal's office, jogged over to his boss.

"You read the files?"

"Yes, sir. All of 'em."

"Good. Stop callin' me sir. How far is Lisbon gonna get?"

"She's a Lexington native. Fit from martial arts, but I don't think she'll get far in the woods. She assaulted that FBI agent over her boyfriend's drug charges, and I'd doubt if she didn't use as well. It'd affect her stamina," Tim glanced around that the other Marshals fanning out into the woods, he licked his lip, "Honestly, sir-Art, I don't think Lisbon could make it outta those woods without help..."

"If you've got an idea that there's a bigger concern...?"

"I think Lidet is a bigger concern. If she's still alive."

Art looked at the Ranger before nodding for him to continue.

"I think she was patchin' up Nelson and Welford, she's a doctor, right? When somebody made a move. Paramedics said there was gauze and tape on Welford's head when they arrived. Nelson's broken wrist had been set. I think she ran because someone's after her, probably Lisbon. She grew up in rural Louisiana, got brothers who're SEALS, and there's the possibility of family money backin' her. Lidet could make it thru there in one piece without help and she could be bankrolled."

"There's also a price on her head. Only a few g's but she's aware of it, we've offered protection," Art narrowed his eyes.

"If she gives information. What if the other prisoners were aware as well? If her family didn't pay for this, somebody else could've to take her out."

"Lidet is a little white-collar corruption beef, her family can buy her out of it, and she knows they will. No point in running. Whereas Lisbon has a history of assault and unsolved deaths, before the murder we connected her to, running is no problem for her," Art paused. "No, Lisbon's our primary. I'm gonna chew on this, you've made good points, but I want you out there. Alright?"

Tim nodded, unconvinced, "Yeah," he turned and started towards Deputy Brooks, who was organizing the Marshals.

"Hey, Tim," Art called out; he spun back to look at his boss, "Thanks for the input."

"Anytime."

Art was unreasonably pleased that Gutterson had an alternate theory to the crash. He was concerned that his Marshal still went home to snipe in Afghanistan...when he was sober, of course.

Gutterson had been in his office for a couple of months, safely under the care and guidance of Deputy Rachel Brooks. He worried about Rachel too, but Rachel talked about her problems. Her mother, her nephew, her sister's death, even a little bit about the difficulty of finding a man who didn't wanna play with her handcuffs, in passing.

Tim, well, he was a scary friggin' iceberg that Art would prefer not take out his office. He'd thought it was just PTSD, at first. Then Tim had taken out a target at 60 yards and asked for the last donut with sprinkles.

He'd had a talk with him then. Taken him out for a drink and watched the kid pack 'em away and call the bartender by name. He let Tim know he needed a Marshal, someone who could tell the difference between a question, a request, and an order. Someone who could negotiate a situation out of gunplay. He said that Tim was a bright kid and could bring other things to the table than a great eye, snarky one-liners, and a seemingly indestructible liver.

Art remembered how Tim had smiled at his beer wrapper, like he was suppressing one of his snarky one-liners.

That had been a few weeks ago. He was pleased as punch Tim had thought about this. He was especially proud that the kid had such good points in his argument, and Art was gonna think about them.

But the situation was that Lisbon was a violent offender and recovering her was the primary concern.

After 2 hours, Alison Riley had been recovered, along with the Corolla's driver, Riley's boyfriend, who was looking to sideline in fake ID's. Their escape was slowed by an ankle sprained in the crash. Pity he was caught too, Tim thought, because his work was good enough to fool the manager at Avis.

By 4 in the afternoon, Gale Pulichak was recovered. She was found sitting on a log, and told the Marshals her feet hurt when they found her.

Lisbon was seen around 3:30 when Art tasked Tim with recovering her. A scant hour later he caught sight of her himself. She was wounded. Cuts all over her hands, blood on her arms, bruise on her face. Grimly determined expression. She was trying to follow something Tim couldn't see. He was on the radio with Rachel, reporting the injuries when Art's voice asked if anyone had caught sight of Lidet.

No one had.

"I've got Lisbon," Tim reported, breaking the silence, he rattled off their location from the GPS requesting backup.

Lisbon saw something and ran towards it. Tim chased and pulled, "Marie Lisbon. US Marshals. Put your hands up."

"Not until that bitch is dead," she hollered back out of breath, stumbling further into the park.

"What bitch, Marie?" he jogged after her, giving her pretty good berth.

"That rich-bitch doctor. Stupid cunt attacked me."

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm bleeding, jackass. Yeah, I'm hurt," she tripped again, this time falling on her hands and Tim made out a bloody shard from the shattered windshield in her right hand.

"Marie. I need you to stop and let us handle Dr. Lidet. If she's dangerous, let us get hurt. Alright?"

"You new to this, sparky? I know you know what I am. What they said I did. I'm gonna kill the bitch and then ya'll can try to fry me. But I'm gonna bleed her first!" she was holding her side now. Internal bleeding or a stitch from the running, he couldn't tell.

"Marie, don't make me shoot you." Tim was within a couple of yards by this point, with a clear shot to take her out. "Marie, your boyfriend, the one you kicked the shit outta that fed for? What was his name?"

"You can't talk this out with me!" she sat, looking at the glass. "He said it'd be easy money. That the stupid bitch had money, she wasn't supposed to fight" She took a deep breath and Tim heard his backup coming up behind him. "All I had to do was take her out. I was thinkin' it'd have to be as they were moving us in. Shank her quick. $15 grand easy. Stupid bitch should've let me kill 'er quick." She was muttering breathlessly by this point.

"Marie Lisbon," Tim heard from behind him, "drop the glass."

She glared over at the Marshals, as if noticing them for the first time and dropped the shard. "Doctor Cunt said I was hurt in the crash. Mighta been right."

By dark Lidet and Nelson's sidearm were the only things not recovered and Art pulled Tim aside, "You ready to head home?"

"No. I can head out."

"Head out?" Art didn't want to push him, but.

Tim smiled grimly, "I've chased down worse than the likes of Clare Lidet. Time spent might be rough but I can get her."

"You were right that she was a concern. But if Lisbon-"

"If Lisbon hadn't moved, she wouldn't have run. I know. You were right, Lisbon was the primary issue."

The pair watched each other, measuring for a moment. "Rachel's puttin' together a bag for you to take in. Go help her."

The bag was essentially flashlights, maps, radio, batteries, GPS tag, MREs, couple of water bottles, water purification tablets, ammo (for his Glock, his secondary Sig, and his rifle), and an extensive first aid kit. He added his rifle and a couple t-shirts. He would have preferred a few Twinkies as well but Rachel seemed less than amused at the mentioning.

He dozed in the truck until dawn, deciding to not risk getting turned around in the cold dark when he could be warm and confident Lidet wasn't making much headway w/o compass and a map. Then he'd work from where Lisbon had been, since she'd been trying to track Lidet anyway.

He reached where Lisbon had been apprehended by 8 and realized how close to the river they'd been, maybe a mile from it. There were boot prints.


	2. Chapter 2

Alright, meant to post this before "The Ear," but my beta was taking her time… Thanks to everyone who reviews (and to those of ya'll that read, sure)

Lidet was arraigned in a black v-neck, jeans, motorcycle jacket and boots. Less than distinctive in Lexington but a bit of a giveaway in the woods. Plus her watch phone and just about everything else useful she'd had in her pockets when she was arrested was still at the lockup.

Tim lost the trail after a few hundred yards, where there was a large oak. A large oak with branches low enough to climb and a perch he knew he could sleep in, if it might be a little cramped. But Lidet was only 5'3". There weren't tracks coming down but if she'd jumped down after climbing out...

He had next to no idea where to look.

Clare Lidet was having a bad week. First, her bike, her dead father's Ducati, went in for a quick tune-up and then needed a replacement. Then, she was arrested for crimes she was not only innocent of, but didn't know were being committed. Then she was arraigned, and then her uncles' told her that bail would take a few days, and there could still be tax penalties for the family trust. So, she was going back to the federal detention center. And her arresting officers' had kindly informed her that there was a price on her head. But, not to worry, all she had to do was sell out the other conspirators that she didn't know, and they'd protect her.

Like a lowly resident would have been involved in some elaborate conspiracy about bribery and misinformation in the transplants' lists.

Then the accident. And Marie pulling her out of the SUV to try and stab her with a shard of windshield. Instead she just sliced her neck and across her chest, with windshield. Who does that?!

So, now she was a motorcycle-less fugitive. Because she knew jail was gonna be worse. And she couldn't pull an unconscious Marshal's gun and pistol-whip anyone there either. Nope, she made a choice and she was sticking with it. It was a stupid choice, but it was hers.

Someone was probably tracking her by now. She'd dozed in a tree for most of the night, but between the cold, the hunger, the gash on her chest she'd had to put fricking leeches on to help control the bleeding, and being in a fucking tree, she was exhausted and moving slow. And she had only the vaguest idea of where she was going. East? Fuck.

She hoped whoever was following her was better prepared. She maybe above bribery and corruption but a little honest theft seemed reasonable. She was a fugitive now, after all.

By the afternoon, Tim, having made the decision to keep heading east, found evidence that she'd been picking plants. Obvious signs. He looked up. No wiggling branches, no fugitive doctors. He kept on at a jog until he found a tree of his own to climb. He caught sight of something a few hundred yards away through his scope. It was her, but he couldn't line up a shot to wing her between the brush and the way she was moving. He reported in and started after her.

He was at a quicker jog than before, still not running yet. But she was walking and he wasn't. He hoped to have her by the end of the day.

The hair on her neck was standing up. When she'd been six she'd had this feeling, it wasn't quite as strong this time, but it was there. That churning of her gut, the sense that the scalp was too small for her skull. It had meant her dad was going to be shot that time. But it had allowed her to sob enough of a warning to him that he'd worn his vest and only had a cracked rib. She had no vest, also no food, water or supplies to MacGyver into anything helpful, but that was secondary to needing to know where the threat would be coming from: a federal or private individual.

By twilight, Tim made it to another oak and climbed. She was slower now, and he was making good time. He sighted her and watched as she looked around her, wary like an injured animal.

She was staying close to the thickest growth, finding protection from his rifle. She jogged between the trees, crossing close to them slowly. Pale and sporting a bloody gash across her chest, she confirmed Tim's theory at the crash site at the end of the day.

She was about half a mile ahead of him when it was dark; he contemplated his flashlight, but didn't turn it on. There was too much distance for night vision goggles to work so he traveled as far as he could in her direction until it was pitch black and he found his own tree to rest in.

Clare's churning gut only got worse as she stumbled over roots and fallen branches. Her own excellent night vision, a genetic gift from her father, served her only so well while she was staying under the trees.

Not knowing how equipped or close her pursuer was wreaking havoc on her mind with every owl hoot and scurrying creature. She didn't dare to leave the cover of whatever foliage she could find, even in the dark.

She kept within hearing distance of the river, trying to place herself on the only map she'd seen of the area, about 5 years ago while camping with a boyfriend as an undergrad. She doubted anyone out there even knew she'd been here before, but it was enough of an edge to keep her trying.

She didn't sleep that night, her progress was slow but she was so focused on where the threat was and what she was confident was a growing stress-related ulcer, she scarcely noticed how hungry she was. By dawn the feeling had faded for her to gnaw on some dandelion leaves and sip from the creek while cleaning her cut.

Tim made his way to the river shortly after dawn. He recognized where he was from the distinctive bend, rocks, and widening that occurred there. Marking the place on his map, he tried for reception as he ate breakfast.

He reported directly to Art, who said Rachel'd be in later to oversee everything after she got her nephew off to school, and report what she'd learned talking to Lidet's family. Not expecting much on that front, Tim agreed to call in again around 9 rather than noon, and signed off.

According to her file, her two oldest brothers were Seals. Jack, Jr., a married SERE instructor, Daniel, still on combat duty. The two closest to her age were twins, Cameron, a marine biologist, and Chris, a priest, and former Navy chaplain. She'd done beauty pageants until her homemaker mother's death. Her parents had died 6 years apart. Her mom, when she'd been 13 in a car accident and her dad, a bounty hunter and former NOPD detective0, had been murdered the year she turned 19. She'd been the one to find each of them. The impetus (impeti) for med school?

She'd tried to help the Marshals in the accident; she had the gun but hadn't used it. Either against the Marshals or Lisbon, and hopefully not against himself later. Tim was rather inclined to believe her innocent and running was a response to the stress of it all, rather than to avoid punishment. Given her background, but all in all, he was grateful that wasn't his job.

By the time he'd talked to Rachel, he walked a little over 10 miles, by the time he finished thinking about what she'd told him Lidet's brothers and uncles had said, he'd found fresh foot prints by the creek and realized she'd walked all night. While he'd slept.

Swampgirl would be a bit more formidable an opponent than he'd guessed. What would Art say now?

Art was too busy gritting his teeth to say much of anything. The New Orleans Marshal's office had called back. They were completely familiar with not only Dr. Lidet, but her family had been bounty hunters and bondsmen for several generations. Dr. Lidet's father had been the black sheep going into the NOPD. Most of the Lidet kids, Clare included, had either caught jumpers or assisted in catching, by the time they finished high school.

The guy on the phone seemed particularly sympathetic, when her name was mentioned, and assured Art of her innocence. Stating, "She's had a rough time, but if she were gonna go for a life of crime, she'd pick somethin' closer to her own skillset. Like contract killing," he'd left Art less than confident of recovering her without incident.

He knew Tim had been an excellent Ranger, an amazing sniper, and a good soldier. There was a sardonic gleam in his eye too often for Art to think Tim followed as blindly his Army masters would have preferred. He was equally confident in thinking Tim could make a damn fine Marshal. The only other person Art knew who noticed things as well had been Raylan, back at Glynco.

Tim's gut had been right on this as well, and Art spared a prayer that Tim wouldn't be as smug in invoking that as Raylan would've been later.

But Tim was a very new Marshal, and he was now working in Ranger mode. If Lidet did something and Tim had to put her down it would not only be a major shit-storm b/c she hadn't been tried, much less convicted, but it could end a very promising career and set him personally back. She wasn't a terrorist or a murderer, even if she was guilty of what the fed's claimed. She was a sister, a niece, and a doctor that people spoke of glowingly.

After Art returned his phone to its cradle he looked at Tim's empty desk, still praying he'd be there for years to come.

Clare was continuing at a fairly glacial pace, given her current condition, relying on her head start and walking all night to get away from her bad feeling. At least until she felt the churning in her stomach get worse.  
It was around noon, if she could trust the sun, and she staggered back to the river so she could know vaguely where she was.  
She ate more leaves, and the few berries she could recognize, imagining IHOP specials she hadn't allowed herself previously. '"When I get my life back, I'm gonna be as fat as a house and not give a good Goddamn," she muttered to herself.

Meanwhile Tim was catching up. And he'd pulled his rifle, if she'd only quit hiding in the damn brush. A begrudging smile tugged at his mouth. She was a challenge and she'd proven him right. All in all, he didn't want to shoot her. He'd just wing her, he decided, just wing her, cuff her quick and look forward to her swearing at him on the way into Lexington.  
There was no way for him to say for sure she had Nelson's sidearm, to make any lethal shoot good anyway. He hadn't seen it, for all he knew, Lisbon had had it and dropped it...Tim abandoned that line of thought. Logic dictated Lidet had the gun, but she knew he was after her by now and still hadn't pulled. His instincts said she was solid, but that was based on knowing her brother, Jackie, at SERE school. An asshole, sure, but competent, reliable and deadly. Besides, asshole was sorta his job. Tim pondered if he should have mentioned that he'd met her brother to Art before going after her, too late now and it's not like they were friends anyway.  
Another line of thought abandoned, Tim jumped down from his perch at the site of her sitting at the river at dusk and he sprinted after her. Within about 60 yards, he slowed and kept to the trees and brush as she'd done, watching her.  
Lidet was sitting on a fallen tree that passed over a rocky patch of the river. The Rockcastle was running high after the spring snows had melted and Lidet was dangling her bare feet in it, boots on the log next to her. He climbed a hickory tree, leaving his pack on the ground, rifle slung on his back, and watched her. She was resting against a dried-out branch, eyes closed, jacket zipped to her throat, her arms crossed, hugging herself. As he lined up a shot to wing her, her eyes opened and darted around.

That damn bad feeling again.  
She'd been starting to doze. Her aching feet numbed, her hunger was past the point of her noticing, and there was no one around to care if she smelled.  
Tranquility shattered, she didn't move anything but her eyes. Hopefully, whoever was tasked with recovering her wasn't watching her face and didn't realize she'd noticed him.

She reminded him of a cat in a zoo. The serene lioness watching cubs play immediately before tearing the throat out of something.  
Tim shifted his weight on his branch. Not a leaf shuddered, he was so careful and it was so solid, nothing there to alert her to his presence. Besides, he figured, if there'd been a reflection off his scope, her eyes wouldn't be flitting around.  
Somehow she'd sensed him. If it was him she was sensing.

A/N I have no idea if the branches share staff for SERE school, but they all have it and the training is pretty standard and I like the idea of Tim being familiar with her family, so whatever. Also, I heard that there'd be more with the Lexington Marshals this season (as in ANYTHING) so, totally fangirl excited now.


	3. Chapter 3

For AndItsOuttaHere and SassyJ for their assistance and encouragement:

***  
Clare was not unaware that she had a price on her head. That she wavered between genuine fear for her life and perverse amusement that anyone would actually pay to kill her was a tad concerning but death wasn't something she'd ever been uncomfortable with. No, she didn't like losing her parents. Yes, she wished them back every day, wished she could have saved them. But she'd watched both her mother's and father's faces turn peaceful as they'd passed.  
Not like now, when they were revolving in the Lidet family crypt because their youngest turned fugitive.  
Clare closed her eyes again. She couldn't look behind her without alerting anyone behind her that she knew they were there, so she listened. The wind in the trees. The bugs and birds. The longer she listened the more she heard. The needles of the Virginia pine to her left. The leaves of the oak versus the hickory. The rustle of opossum in brush (much quieter than herself). And as the wind changed she smelled fabric softener.

Tim shifted as his fingers tried to grow numb and the wind changed, blowing at him rather than from the northwest, perpendicular to his position. After days away from human contact the scent of Snuggle, however faint was as noticeable as that hot court reporter's perfume was in the courthouse. Behind Lidet, on the far side of the river, brush shifted, ever so slightly. He followed the motion with his scope, Lidet on the backburner. The figure edged slowly around, taking the least direct path to find a shot to take out the doctor.

Clare sighted the reflection of the scope in front of her a scarce moment after smelling the man behind her. Deciding that the scope, which was probably attached to a rifle, was a more immediate threat than fabric softener she rolled off the log and into the water just ahead of the shots.

Tim watched Lidet move just as a thug rounded a Charlie Brown-esque Virginia pine, Smith & Wesson outstretched. Bark and branch flew at the two rapid-fire shots, sandwiched between her falling and her arm reaching out of the water for her boots. He lined his shot at the thug and fired. Winging the thug, he grabbed his rifle and leapt down after him. Lidet, seizing the opportunity, made it to the other shore and started pulling on her boots.  
Remembering his purpose, Tim took a knee and tried to wing her. She rolled and all she got was a graze to her upper arm. "Stay put!" he yelled at her, before taking off.  
Running parallel, on the other side of the river, the thug was firing at Tim now. Once. Twice. Tim pulled his Glock and fired left handed, chasing straight as the water turned.  
Thug dead. And Tim was ankle deep wet, damn it.  
He turned and made his way back to where he'd seen Lidet, shoes squeaking. She was still on the other side of the river and was currently shaking water out of her jacket and looking at her arm. "Dr. Lidet, stay where you are!" he hollered, looking for a way across that wasn't that fallen log, while radioing whoever was nearest. He had next to no reception, a few occasional words, but mostly static. He reported in, hoping someone-anyone- could understand him, as she cocked her head at his futility.

"I did stay put where I was," she grumbled under her breath before sitting back on her heels. Clare watched the marshal keep trying to radio in. She'd stayed put, like he said, but mostly to watch his impotence in the situation. He really didn't want to walk over that log. She didn't blame him, it'd been down for a long time and there was a reason she hadn't crossed it. But she didn't mind getting wet, if she was going to get pneumonia, it'd be icing on the cake at this point. But this guy, he was avoiding getting wet like a housecat.  
It shouldn't have been funny to watch him pace and scramble. But it was a slow week.

Naturally, Tim didn't see another option without slogging through more water. He grabbed his pack, and edged up to the fallen tree. His steps hesitant and awkward, give him a cliff-face any day.  
He'd made it a few feet before he heard cracking. Images of every scene in a movie where a train sped over a falling bridge crossed his mind. He looked across his own makeshift bridge. Yeah, that wasn't happening.  
Lidet was sitting now, watching him cross, making him almost wish she'd run, rather than play audience and make him nervous. The little half smile playing at her lips assured him playing audience was the only reason she'd stayed.  
Tim shook his head scowling and crossed a few more feet. Then the tree snapped.  
And then Tim was neck deep in running water, his feet scrambling on mossy rocks.  
Well, shit.

The marshal's head was above water for one grim moment before the current took him. Clare was on her feet running after him, yelling for him to swim across the current.  
His pack was floating along ahead of him and managed to get caught in some brush 40 or 50 feet from where he'd gone in. Clare reached it within seconds but the marshal was still in the water.  
Fearing that he'd hit his head, Clare stripped off her jacket as she ran, tossing it with his pack, and ran in after him. Always a strong swimmer and moving with the current she reached him as he was trying to catch himself on more debris in the water.  
Coughing and hacking whenever he came up, she pulled him by his collar closer to the shore. Eventually, she pulled them both out of the worst of the current. Finally, Clare lay back, her feet and most of the marshal still in the shallows. "I better get some damn fine karma for this shit."

Tim woke up to searing pain across the inside of his left bicep. He wasn't ready to open his eyes yet, at least not until he felt it again. Reflex had kept him from doing more than inhaling his scream rather than exhaling it, but it also made him twitch enough that his arm hurt even more. "Faker. Yeah, you're still unconscious. Your skills are less than convincing," she said.

He opened his eyes to glare at her. She was prettier than her photo. Not after 2 days in the woods though, she was pale and the skin around her face was tighter, he knew she hadn't eaten, and there were dark rings under her eyes. Her dark hair twisted back, jacket zipped up all the way, and Nelson's gun tucked in her right boot. But she seemed calm and focused as she was stitching his burning arm up. There must have been a horribly ragged gash from the branches he'd tried to catch himself on. What was left was a 6-inch staggered red line broken up by her neat stitches. There was maybe space for three left. Three that he would be awake for. "Dr. Lidet, you are under arrest."

She smiled, "Oh, good, you're funny."

Another stitch.

He winced.

"Oh, c'mon, I thought you Rangers were tough. Big baby!"

"I'm sorry, did I complain? When was the last time you had stitches? Without anesthesia? Fuckin' hurts."

"When I was seven," she smiled at the memory, "my brothers pushed me out of our tree house. In their defense, it was on fire. It was 12 feet up and I landed badly. Compound fracture, exposed tibia, 15 stitches. Local wore off after 11. Wasn't even the worst pain of it."

"Do I wanna know the worst pain of it?"

"My brother Cam, he studies jellyfish now, he thought it was a prank-the exposed bone and gore and all- so he poked it with a stick," she seemed awfully chipper about it. "And then he was my slave for 6 months."

Tim's lips quirked before he stopped them.

"I saw that," she cut the thread. "And done." Off his puzzled look, she added, "In my ER rotation I started telling that story, it's been a big hit." She dug in his med kit more passing him a sealed bottle of water and a conveniently packed Z-pak. She conspicuously broke the seals and passed them to his right hand, "Take 'em."

"Yes, Doctor," he did as she said, closing the bottle and setting it down. "Now, as I was saying," he lunged and tackled her, holding her forearms so she couldn't pull, "You are under arrest."

She grinned again at him this time. All pride and sparkles and undisguised glee, like he'd lived up to an expectation. She did this right before before elegantly kneeing him in the side and shoving him off simultaneously, flipping him on his back, straddling him. "That was rude, Deputy." She then pulled his handcuffs from her back pocket, asking, "What was next in your plan?" Near hysterical grin, still full wattage.

He scowled, full out, working his jaw, "Can you get off me so I can check my pockets now?"

She stood, adjusting her jacket, then absently, "Shit."

"What?" he was still checking his own pockets, badge, guns (all still loaded and currently resting on top of his pack), key ring (conspicuously lacking the handcuff key), and no wallet. He glared up at her, "You stole my wallet? What the hell?"

Clare had taken off her jacket and was sitting in front of his bag again, applying butterflies to an inflamed slice from her neck to between her breasts. "Busy."

"What happened?" he breathed. It was scabbed and oozing blood as she tried to pull it together without looking down. She clearly hadn't been taking care of it. "Dr. Lidet!" he nearly shouted to get her attention, "What happened?"

She glowered over at him, annoyed, "What's it look like?"

"It looks like someone tried to kill you. How long has it been like that?"

"Couple of days. It was healing until someone tried to tackle me. Tore the scab open."

He swallowed, "Is it infected? Do you-"

"It'd be oozing pus rather than blood then." She sounded irritated, "I am a doctor. I have kept a bit of an eye on it."

He scowled, and moved around the fire she'd built to sit in front of her. He pulled a tube of ointment from the pack and dragged the bactine she'd left out over. "Stop wasting my stuff, Lidet." He squirted the bactine over a bit of gauze and reached to dab it over her neck and paused at her expression, "Or you can do it?"

She smirked and tilted her head, "Go ahead."

"Cute." He dabbed at it until she took his hand and dragged it, far too roughly in his opinion, "Should you be doing that?"

"Taking the torn scab off so it can heal cleanly? Yeah," she removed her hand, flexing her fingers. "Although, if you wanna do this right you'd have to stitch it."

"I think butterflys'll do," he said. "How'd you know I was a Ranger?"

"Tattoo was a bit of a giveaway."

"Um," he paused, "I, uh, um." he held the gauze over her breasts, staring where the slice continued between them.

"I think I can take it from here, Deputy." She took the gauze from him.

He flexed his fingers, just 'cause they were stiff though, not like he could still feel where she'd touched him. "You've seen my tattoo, you've stitched me up, and you've stolen my wallet. I think you can call me Gutterson."

"Not Tim," she smirked, "Or is this a, 'me fugitive, you Marshal' type of thing?"

"It is one of those type things, Doctor," didn't she know not to flirt with him?

She passed him the box of butterflies. "Don't stretch anything, just tape it shut. Okay?"

"Okay," he swallowed, and tilted her head to an angle that didn't stretch the skin. "Alright, um. How am I-?"

"Start about an inch from the end, beginning, whatever, and then do that until you feel uncomfortable again. Or you could just find me a mirror?"

"Sorry." He continued taping until just above her breasts this time.

She smirked and took the butterflies back without comment.

"You haven't patched up where I winged you yet?" he looked at the open graze, and grabbed another bit of gauze.

Being more accustomed to this sort of medicine Tim didn't bother glancing over for her approval as he cleaned and wrapped her arm, trying not to pull it away from what she was doing. When he did look at her, the expression on her face made him want to blush.

As he hadn't blushed since Tori Lynn Andrews stuck her hand down his pants after hearing he was enlisting back in high school, Tim was less than pleased. "You are under arrest."

"I don't care," she said simply.

He looked at the sky in exasperation; the sun had set sometime between waking up and then, "Truce? Just for a little while?"

Clare tilted her head at him. He wasn't supposed to do that, not help patch her up, and not offer her a truce because they were both tired and exhausted. "Why?"

"'Cuz...you're hungry and I have what is loosely described as food? You're technically in my custody, I am responsible for you?" He wasn't supposed to be cute and nice, either. Damn it.

"I am not in your custody. We're just next to the same tree right now, Gutterson," she said it sadly because she was. He was gonna get screwed when she finished escaping, she just knew it. His jackass suit boss was gonna punish him for losing her and then he'd curse her name while trapped in whatever Marshal's office was worse than Lexington. "How's your head?"

"Fine. Look, we can protect you-"

He was like a puppy almost, all cute and earnest, except now she kinda wanted to kick him, "If I give up a bunch of people I don't know for crimes I know nothing about!" she snapped, standing. "I was told how this would work. The feds who arrested me were really informative. The problem is I don't know anything! So the 'quid pro quo' thing-Really NOT gonna happen!" She turned to stalk off, she still had his cuffs and she'd tossed his radio in the river, so he couldn't report that he'd found her. Besides she was pretty sure the knot on his head was a mild concussion, he wouldn't be able to follow her all that well.

Instead he caught the wrist of her wounded arm and spun her around, "Just," he rubbed his face with his free hand, "eat something and we'll cross the other bridge later, okay? And give me my cuffs back."

"Did no one teach you how to negotiate, Deputy?" she asked, "You're supposed to make offers, not demands. This is not 'I get a meal, you get your cuffs back'."

"Just sit. Would you?" his eyes blazed.

He looked really cute frustrated, and she was just too appreciative of the relative normalcy of pissing off a tough guy to not oblige him. She sat. He followed. Their knees almost touched as he reached for his bag. Idiot. It was his hurt arm. She pulled it to them as he winced again, and he glowered at her. She grinned, completely relaxed. It wasn't quite like pissing off her brothers and their friends, she was too aware of Tim for that. But it was nice how predictable he was.


	4. Chapter 4

After polishing off an MRE and swiping one of his precious Snickers, Lidet cleared her throat and looked at him.  
Tim ignored her in favor of watching a rat snake coil up a birch. He knew what she wanted to ask and he didn't have an answer. He was tired and his head hurt and he didn't want to think about this sort of crap. That's why he liked dealing with fugitives, determining guilt or innocence wasn't in his repertoire. He pulled a Snickers of his own and unwrapped it.  
She stayed silent, watching him eat. Arms wrapped around her knees like a little kid. "Hadn't planned this far ahead, did ya?" she finally said after he'd finished.  
He shook his head, staring into the fire. "I don't know what to do with you," he confessed. "I'm supposed to bring you in, but it's late and dark, and I couldn't get a radio signal to give 'em a heads up about your friend back there. Besides," he narrowed his eyes at her now, "if we try hiking out for a signal you'll try to escape and there's no telling how many buddies he's got."  
"You won't get a signal at all," she said, resting her chin on her knees. "I tossed it in the Rockcastle when you were out."  
Tim didn't know if his glare was that impressive or if she was just feeling guilty, but she winced when he made eye contact, and sort of shrugged. "I'm not going back. They'll just charge me with escaping federal custody on top of the other crap." She gestured to his pack, "Your GPS tag, maps and flashlights are all in there. You can get out of here fine, just... Not with me."  
Tim took a deep breath and exhaled. Then took another. "You have got to be one of the single most frustrating females EVER." He continued glaring as she shrugged another apology and he got an idea.  
"I met your brother Jackie at SERE school."  
"Bet you didn't tell your boss that."  
He shook his head, "Didn't even think of it at the time. We weren't close."  
"I'll bet," she quirked an eyebrow at him.  
So Tim went for it, "He's got kids, doesn't he? Your nephews?"

"You fucking asshole," she said it calmly and without heat, "your beginning was clumsy, but you get points for not dragging it out to the finish."  
"How old are they?"  
"Little. Three and five."  
"Little and cute?"  
"Naturally." She shook her head, "Dick." She stood and stomped her feet, fighting a yawn. "Isn't like I don't wanna watch 'em grow up and give their parents hell. I do. But-"  
"You're not going back," he finished for her. "Who cares about the repercussions?"  
She narrowed her eyes and pouted.  
"What happens to little things like your brothers' careers and security clearances with a fugitive sister?"  
"Danny will have a closer eye on him. Maybe tap his phone. Jackie's an instructor, shouldn't be hearing anything anyway." She was absolutely still for a moment, looking east. Then she palmed one of his water bottles and said, "Thanks for dinner," before bee-lining it into the dark.  
He got up to race after her. Only for him to trip out of his boots, because she'd taken the laces while he was out. He cursed and followed her in his soggy socks; half hoping the ones in his pack were dry when this was over.

It was a rotten thing but it was probably the smartest thing. If she let him wear her down she'd never see her nephews, because she was dead rather than because she was in prison. The shoelace thing she wasn't proud of, but they were in his pack not the river, so she could live with it.  
As she heard him closing in on her, she sprang up the maple tree like a spider monkey, managing the third level of branches, about 15 feet up, before she felt a hand on her ankle. Son of a bitch.

He yanked her down with all his weight. She was at his feet as he stepped down from his foothold, glaring and panting. "Truce over. I want my cuffs, now."  
"I said I wasn't going back. And no." Her eyes flashed at him, their movement giving away her move before she made it.  
Her leg swung at Tim's ankles and he dodged, barefoot, stumbling but staying on his feet. She regained hers and watched. "Is this what we're playin'? Shoulda shot you before..."  
"You did," she kept her eyes on him. Watched him reach for his sidearm...that he'd left with his pack. What the hell. She raised an eyebrow at him, still circling one other.  
"You still have Nelson's gun, don't you?"  
"What took you so long to ask?"  
"Do you or don't you?"  
They'd moved in a full circle by now and Tim thought he could make out the flickers of their dying campfire in her eyes. Just before she took off again.  
She made good time for the few yards before he tackled her, rolling to the ground.

Clare was breathless as she tried and failed to crawl out from under Gutterson. She tried to roll, get the dirt and leaves out of her face. And failed, coughing the dust from her mouth and spitting, "Jesus Christ!"

He wrenched her up with him, pulling his cuffs from her pocket as he yanked. Moving to catch her wrist, he had to pull one hand off her torso. She managed to pull away enough to kick him off with both legs and he went flying.

About a yard apart and breathless again, they stared at each other, neither under any illusion that they were on anything but different sides. He eyed her as coldly as an enemy. And she felt it. Knew what his training consisted of. Knew what her brothers had gone through and had more than sneaking suspicions of what they'd kept from her.

They were both the same distance from their makeshift camp now. Base. She glanced at it, trying to distract him. She darted further in the woods, zagging when she heard him take off after her. He caught up another couple of yards after, rolling with her to the base of an oak.

He expected her legs this time, pre-empting her, so she opted to flip him on his back with a thud. Unofficial Judo classes at work. She moved to get away, but he held her waist as she twisted, keeping her close. She hit him. The blow glancing off his cheek before he forced her arm down by her head. "Goddamn, Lidet," he muttered, pulling her other flailing arm to her captured wrist. His now free hand pulled back to knock her out.

Seeing no other recourse, Clare went limp. And prayed.

Tim hesitated. All his training. Basic. Sniper School. Ranger School. SERE School. And he couldn't bring himself to hit the girl.

She just stared up at him, this bizarre, childlike trust. She just looked up at him with this fervent belief that he wouldn't take that swing.

And he didn't.


	5. Chapter 5

To freshouttaideas

He hauled her back to their camp, hand around one wrist. Roughly pulling her down with him at the fire, still crackling next to his pack and boots, Tim scowled and threw a few sticks and his now deceased socks on it, returning his Glock to his belt with a glare at her.  
"That'll be a pleasant scent," she snarked, still not pulling her wrist away.  
He continued his breathing exercises from before. In and out. Repeat. She was worse than his own sister. Jesus. No wonder her brothers went into the military, after her, Basic must have been a cakewalk. He watched the socks steam and smolder, ignoring her.  
She leaned back and stared at the stars. Apparently deciding turnabout was fair play, she ignored him. Except when she tried to wrestle the water bottle from her jacket pocket, and she had to scoot closer to use the hand Tim held.  
She continued ignoring him studiously.  
Long after he gave up ignoring her, she kept watching the stars. A good twenty minutes of wonderful peace, and he interrupted to ask, "What the fuck was that?"  
"I told you I wasn't going back," Clare kept her eyes on the sky.  
"Uh huh."  
She didn't bother responding, or moving. So he tugged at her, "How about the truth, Doc?"

Clare didn't want to look at him. His hand was so hot on her skin and her wrist was so tingly. If she looked at him, she'd kiss him. And she was fairly sure that would be bad.

She wouldn't look at him. Or respond. But she had a little half smile playing on her face so he didn't trust what she was thinking. Better to have her talking, more annoying, but less chance of her coming up with a new plan to give Art a chance to bitch at him.  
"C'mon, Lidet. I'm just a Marshal. Consider it practice for the jury," he tried being friendly.  
She cleared her throat, "I am not going back."  
"I just got this job. I've been in the office three months. I am not letting a little girl skate because she sticks her bottom lip out at me."  
"Don't care."  
"You assaulted a federal officer," he didn't sound like he cared.  
"Add it to the list."  
He leaned in her face, "Cut the shit. What was your plan?"  
She glared at him now. "Mexico, down to Belize, maybe work the cartel countries. Find myself a cabana boy and live out my days with fruity drinks," she said scathingly.  
He sat back, more relaxed now that she was irate, "Huh. Sounds nice."

He really was six years old. She watched his face now. Tranquil, and still not letting go of her. It was kind of sexy. No, bad thought! Best to just wait until he dozed off. She still had his handcuff key, she could cuff him and escape.  
Although, if she jumped him then he'd be taken off the hunt for conflict of interest. Which was an appealing option.  
But he was new to the office and this career, and that could ruin him.  
Stupid scruples.

He could feel her fuming beside him. Her wrist as hot on his skin as the fire on his bare feet. He just didn't want to let go, which was as dangerous as holding fire in his fist anyway.  
Swallowing, "If I let you go..."  
"We've discussed this," she warned.  
He met her eyes and wished he hadn't. Shit, if it wasn't mutual...

There were some pretty great sparks with that eye contact. If he'd been anyone else. If she hadn't decided to turn fugitive because it was the only decision left for _her_ to make. She could really be enjoying this moment.

He broke off before she did, focusing on the fire. On the woods. On anything but her.  
And Clare saw her opportunity. She pulled free while his eyes were flitting between the fire and the Rockcastle, still flowing in the distance. She managed to get as far this time even without his boots tripping him, because she dodged him a few times, knowing what to avoid. She still heard him say, "Psycho bitch," before he took off after her and he still tackled her. Bodies rolling in the brush, arms around her. They stopped with Clare on her back, again. "This is gettin' old, Lidet," Tim said breathlessly, hand up to smack the shit out of her.  
"Don't lie," she muttered, "You chose this job."  
"Yeah, this shit makes me hard."  
"You really wanna say that on top of me, Deputy?" she quirked an eyebrow at him.  
His eyes went to her body before he could help it, she pulled his cuffs from his own pocket, and got his right wrist before he could pull back. Cursing, he reared back, pulling her with him. She used the momentum and tackled, girl didn't have four older brothers for nothing, and they tipped back.  
He moved to cuff her with the remaining bracelet and she twisted away, jumping on his back, pulling his hair. He threw them both down on her back. And her grip loosened allowing him to spin and pin her. At least until she moved to kick him off again and he had to move to dodge her, allowing her to get away.  
He grabbed her ankle as she tried scooting away, pulling her back under him. She moved to kick again and she went for his hair. He rolled to avoid her, knocking his head on the ground, distracting him.  
She took the moment to try to get to her feet, getting maybe a yard before he was on top of her again. They wrestled back and forth until they heard a branch break.  
Their eyes flew and they both pulled. Her from her boot, him from his hip. They pointed in the dark distance northeast of their campfire. Eyes peeled for anything.


	6. Chapter 6

Ok, I should be in present day in the next chapter, complete with Raylan and Art and Rachel. Thank you to everyone reviewing

Anything at this moment was a raccoon.  
When they could both breathe again, their eyes met and they laughed at themselves. Tim clicked the cuffs around her wrist so they were trapped together, saying, "Stop runnin' for the night, alright? My head's killin' me."  
Clare chuckled again and ran her hand over his head, watching his eyes. Pupils were about the same size, but she couldn't check dilation without a better light source. "C'mon, Gutterson. I guess we got that truce again," she pushed him up and held his shoulders as his wobbled a bit.  
"You gonna patch me up like the Marshals in your transport?" he said, starting out toward the fire slowly.  
"Might not be as successful. This might need more equipment than your little box..."

"Were you serious?" Tim said his flashlight in his eyes, "About Mexico and Belize and the cabana boy?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"May tell me where to find you later," he rested his head back on a folded t-shirt.  
She chuckled, "You don't wanna come with me?"  
His drifting eyes snapped open and he gaped. She chuckled some more. He spared a brief thought to South America with her. She was tanned and beneath him on a tropical beach, moaning his name. Ok, _maybe_ it wasn't a brief thought, _maybe_ it was filed away. Regardless, he ultimately decided she was fishing for a reaction like a teenager.  
He knew guys who had gone to South America, made fine livings freelancing. He also knew guys that had gone back to the Middle East under varying employers, knew they needed the mad minute. Tim had had enough mad minutes, and he knew he'd get more in his chosen line anyway.  
It wasn't the mad minute he was out to avoid as much as the still ones that came before it.  
The mercenaries he knew, they'd thrived in those frozen moments. As Tim's stomach coiled up tighter in preparation, they'd be as still as he was, but vibrating with some invisible, hungry, energy. Like batteries, recharging with the sick anticipation of death. Tim avoided guys like that. It allowed him to sleep better, knowing they were "away." Would prefer she avoid guys like that as well. He didn't quite worry though. She wasn't their type.  
Abandoning his musings, he said, "You're so full of shit, Lidet. I'm changing the subject-"  
"You started this one, slick."  
"Why couldn't I hit you?"  
She stilled, amused expression gone, hands no longer working on another Snickers wrapper, "You don't wanna know that."  
"I really do."  
"Ok, then. Because you want to sleep with me."  
"I think you're over estimating how good a man I am."  
"Then why didn't you hit me? Either time?"  
He didn't quite glare but he was damned close "I'm not gonna sleep with you."  
"I haven't offered."  
"Why couldn't I hit you?"  
"There's a reason there's a stigma attached to hitting women. It's biology to protect the child-bearers of the species. Mere evolution. You couldn't hit me because you want to fuck me. Fucking me runs the risk of knocking me up, Knocking me up makes me a child bearer. For the good of the species, you could not hit me. Is that plain enough for you?"  
Clare had been cold and detached, holding his eyes as she spoke. He stared at her a moment longer, weighing the new bullshit she'd thrown at him. But it was better they were clear, so he abandoned this line of conversation too.  
"Why are you in Kentucky, Cajun?"  
She huffed. "Are we gonna _have_ to talk?"  
"Or we can talk about my diagnosis, doc," he smirked from his prone position, it wasn't his first concussion. He knew the routine.  
"My mother's family offered to pay for med school if I moved up here. I had other reasons to come up here too, so I took them up on it. That answer your question, Deputy?"  
He nodded, "You're less trouble when you're talking."  
She smirked, "Think I can't multi-task these bracelets off?" She picked up her wrist and his as well. "You want a story?"  
"Sure."  
"There was a girl-"  
"Was she pretty?" he cut in just to be a dick.  
"About an 8," she blew him off and continued, "and she had a bike-motorcycle- that she loved and adored. She- the bike- she'd been her daddy's, y'see. So, she loved this bike and being a bike, sometimes things on her broke. But the girl was away from home, so she had to find herself a new mechanic for her love-"  
"Her love?" Tim scoffed.  
"A bike is faithful and true, Deputy," she seemed immune to his commentary, continuing, "So, she brought her love to someone she heard was straight and as true as her love. But this MENSA candidate tried-"  
He chortled, "MENSA candidate?"  
"Do I have to explain the reference? This brain-trust tried to sell our girl the wrong carburetor to fix the problem. Something with the fuel/air mix in the engine, and this bastard couldn't tell a Honda from a Yamaha. Anyway, our girl has four big brothers on top of a sensible old man, so she continued her search for someone worthy."  
"You're bitchin' about your bike now?"  
"I fell in love with that bike before I ever found a boy willin' to brave my brothers to cop a feel. She is my first love. And I haven't been able to enjoy her for two Goddamn weeks and now I never will," Clare finished sadly. "Yeah, I'm bitching about my bike."  
He smiled, she was sweet. God help him, he actually liked her. Wouldn't keep him from bringing her in though. It'd be easier to clear her name from within the system, anyway. She hadn't pulled on him, even when they were fighting, and someone was trying to kill her. They had a responsibility to protect her just to track down that party, even if she didn't cooperate with the corruption investigation. He could convince Art of that.  
"You need to give me Nelson's gun," he said softly.  
"How come you didn't ask earlier?" she countered.  
"I wanna sleep with you," he non-answered.  
She shook her head at him, but pulled and handed it to him, grip first. "Idiot."  
"That's what everyone says," he agreed pretty chipper.  
"How long did it take?"  
"What?" he asked in legitimate confusion.  
"Your idiot water-cooler routine. How long did it take to master?" she smiled knowingly.  
"No routine."  
"I'm full of shit? How much work it take to get through Sniper School? Can't imagine the math was all that easy."  
He smiled, "'Magine med school was worse."  
"I don't pretend to be slow, Deputy."  
"Thought we were being less formal?"  
"I think it's best if we are formal, Deputy."  
He let his eyes run over her face, "You're probably right, doc."  
"Usually am." She was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees again, watching the fire.  
He knew he wasn't supposed to sleep, lest he not wake up. He could think of things to get himself up but he couldn't do any of them with a fugitive. He was stranded in the woods with a beautiful woman he couldn't touch. And it was his choice. Not that he could do much with his head pounding like it was.

His pupils weren't unequal, but he was sluggish and a little dizzy. Clare wasn't sure of concussion without a CT, but she was sure time and rest would help him recover. It hadn't been a hard blow when they were fighting, but given that he'd lost consciousness in the river his system probably wasn't up for as much as he wanted to throw at it.  
Her brothers Jackie and Danny were similarly stubborn. Training past all recognizable exhaustion. She knew the warrior type. The glory hunter. Loving one of them was a broken heart by itself. She loved two, but they were her brothers, not her lovers. It wasn't as painful as it could be, she supposed, feeling for women like her mother and sister-in-law.  
Loving a man who fought wars. Any wars, was all about holding on for the ride. Keeping your own compass; to be his compass. It took strength and a price. Clare shot a man at 19 to save her father. Her mother had killed a man when she'd been pregnant with her brother Danny. The perp had broken in to send a message to Clare's NOPD father, Clare's mother had shot him, seven months pregnant and holding her two-year-old son, Jackie, loving a man like that took strength. Standing by a man like that took more than Clare was sure she had.  
She also found herself wondering what sort of man Deputy Gutterson was as she watched the flames dance around the plastic remains of his socks.  
He was cute enough, bright enough, and he could handle himself. And the timing was for shit. The first guy to get her blood flowing since she'd come up here and he's a damn Marshal chasing her through a national park. Figures.  
"Why'd you become a Marshal?"  
"Why not?" She turned to see his half smile, he shrugged, "It appealed to me."  
"Old school justice?"  
"I guess. I like the chasing too. The tracking."  
"The hunting?"  
He nodded. "I was a scout sniper in Afghanistan. It's not outside my training."  
She nodded, gaze on the fire again. "Just less killing?"  
"Yep."  
"Your parents proud?"  
He smirked at her fishing. "My mom is. When she's not scared, she says. My sister keeps her off my back though."  
Clare looked at him now, "What's she like?"  
"Insane." He smiled, "I love my sister, don't get me wrong. But I reckon she's a lot like you. Insufferable. Smart ass. Know-it-all. Great prep for COs. I imagine after a childhood with you, your brothers were well practiced in taking shit."  
"I was the baby, Deputy. I don't think they were taking all the shit from me, sport. Your sister older?"  
"By almost six years. I was her baby doll, but she taught me how to play light sabers."  
"Oh. I used to love light sabers. We'd play pirates too. And Robin Hood," Clare was grinning widely. That full wattage one from before, he couldn't help but smile at it.

"Why do I doubt you were ever Maid Marian?"

Clare ignored him, "What about your dad?"  
"Dickhead."  
Her light expression faded instantly, "I'm sorry."  
He shook his head, rueful.  
"No, really. My daddy was wonderful. I can't imagine not having someone like that. I am sorry." She squeezed his hand.  
He scanned her face. She was being honest. "I survived. He wasn't abusive or anything. Least not physically. He just...had to have his own way. And no one of my momma's bloodline is conducive to that."

"No one?" she asked with a half smile.  
"Nope."  
"So, no wonder you didn't stay in the Rangers then?"  
He smiled his own half smile, "No wonder at all."  
"When Danny came home from his first tour, Jackie had just been assigned to Kittery. And Danny started telling this story at the dinner table...just for Jackie's benefit, really."  
She cocked her head at him and he nodded for her to continue.  
"Danny said that they _NEVER_ have a full SEAL team at SERE school at once because the _ONE_ time it happened the SEALs did escape. And retaliate. And it was a whole big thing."  
Tim swallowed. "I'm familiar with the tale."  
She smirked, "Is there a Ranger version?"  
"Don't you need to get some sleep if you're gonna be running all the way to Mexico tomorrow?"

Tim tugged her closer and passed her another tee from his pack. "Go to bed, doc."  
She smiled, taking the shirt, and using it as a pillow, rolling on her side to face him. And not pull either of their handcuffed arms uncomfortably, of course. "I'll check on you in a couple of hours. But I think you'll be fine."  
"Thanks."


	7. Chapter 7

I know, I know. But it's just a _little_ bit of the past, and then there's Art and Rachel and Raylan

Tim woke to shivering while it was still dark. 3:27 according to his watch. It had dropped into upper 40's by his estimation and Clare was shivering next to him. Her chattering teeth aggravating his headache.  
He moved closer to her, stealing the t-shirt that had been under her head to place under his own, and sliding his handcuffed arm around her, pulling her arm across her chest. Keeping her close, he laid his head back down, careful of any tender spots and went back to sleep.

A couple of hours later, Clare woke up in his arms with a deep breath of Tim. Although this was Tim after three days in the woods, so she tried to cough as quietly as possible as she fished his handcuff key from the coin pocket of her jeans.  
Freeing herself, she edged away as slowly as possible before nearly tripping over his pack. Which reminded her she was hungry. She watched his face as she reclaimed his wallet, another MRE or two, another water bottle, and a handful of goods from his first aid kit. She hesitated before leaving their makeshift camp one last time. Then she bent and kissed his forehead, "Another time then." And she was gone.

Present Day

Tony Kender hunched over his phone, "Look the statement went into evidence today...no, I hadn't read it before- Look, it clears that little doctor...No...Well, apparently Stark didn't think you paid for three years. I'm just giving you the heads up. The AUSA isn't pursuing the escape charges, the girl is free and clear as of tomorrow...Okay. Are you sure? That's a lot of currency to spend on one family, 'specially when it ain't yours...Yeah. I got it. Good as done." His last words being to empty air as his "client" had hung up after giving instructions. Second generation prison guard Tony let his head hang. After 3 years of coddling Colin Stark in the hole, he was finally going to get to hang his ass out to dry.  
***

"Hey, kiddies, my office," Art Mullen greeted his troops after lunch through his open door.

Raylan and Tim exchanged glances before following Rachel into his office. Tim stayed leaning against the doorframe as Rachel took the chair and Raylan bee-lined for the cabinet with Art's bourbon.

"It's noon, Raylan. Guess who I just fielded a call about?" Art smirked, coffee cup in hand. "Clare Lidet."

"Who's Clare Lidet?" Raylan looked at the cabinet a little mournfully.

Tim looked at the ceiling.

Rachel chuckled, "Tim's white whale."

"She is not."

"She oughta be," Art smirked. "She gave you a right black eye gettin' away like she did. You were only here a couple months 'fore you lost her. Then there was that business with your wallet at the gas station."

Rachel turned to Raylan, "After she got away, she left his wallet, sans cash, at a gas station lost and found."

"Left the credit cards too," Tim nodded, "She's a fugitive. About 6 months before you and Tommy Bucks, Clare Lidet was taken into federal custody on some hospital corruption beef, nothing was ever proven."

"Anyway-" Art waved his hand.

"The transport crashed, several escapees. Lidet wasn't recovered so I went in to chase her through Daniel Boone National Park."

"And she got away? From you?"

"Clare Lidet's daddy was a cop, NOPD, but before and after that, he was a bounty hunter in southern Louisiana. The way his daddy was a bounty hunter. The way her uncle and cousins still are," Art continued smiling.

"And of her four older brothers, all Navy, two went through SEAL training," Tim drawled. "She even chased jumpers with her old man after her mom died."

"Before that she was just a pretty little girl doin' her residency at UK," Rachel smirked, "Least until we tied her to the case on corruption with the organ donation and transplant lists."

"No more transplants," Raylan asked nicely.

Rachel continued smugly, "Then she was leavin' Army Rangers concussed in the woods and stealing their stuff."

"She left you concussed?"

"I chased her for 3 days, late on day 2 I caught sight of her _and_ someone else chasing her. He and I exchanged gunfire, he died. Then Lidet and I..." he paused looking for the right expression, even putting a finger up to quiet Rachel when she opened her mouth, "went for a swim. I got caught in some branches, tore up my arm some, hit my head. I dragged myself out and took a nap."

"This is the approved version, right?"Art verified. "Not the one where you got laid, huh?"

Tim tilted his head to look at Art, "Am I tellin' this or are you gonna tell us why it matters now, three years later?"

"Well, I'd like Raylan to know why he'll be accompanying you on the continuing search for the fair Dr. Lidet. Rachel has her hands full with the witnesses in the Ruiz trial. Unless, you'd like to chase Dr. Lidet some more, Deputy Brooks," he asked her.

"No, sir, I am _fine_ with my witnesses."

"Figured as much." Art directed his attention at Tim once more, "Now, you were concussed and napping. Carry on."

"I woke up further from shore than I recalled, and an MRE, with the antibiotics from my pack on top, was left in front of me. She'd stitched my arm up while I was out and left the note-"

"Which we still have floatin' around somewhere," Rachel grinned.

"'Take with food, mild concussion. Clare.' It's less cute if you know she took my radio and tossed it, and outright stole my wallet and half my first aid kit. But she left Nelson's gun, that had disappeared from the crash site, so I took her advice, then followed her tracks to the tire tracks, and the tire tracks from there to the road," Tim finally finished.

"Do I get a file to supplement this story?" Raylan asked looking askance at Tim. "You really didn't sleep with her?"

"Jesus." More ceiling observation.

"So, this matters now, three years later, because we have information that the price on fair Dr. Lidet's head has gone up."

"It's like she's innocent," Tim said.

"You did bring up that idea before. But it's not why the federal charges against her have been dropped."

Tim sat down now. "Since when?"

"Since this morning. It was deemed that Dr. Lidet was not involved with hospital corruption, especially after Colin Stark testified he planted evidence and the fire at her apartment was arson, part of his immunity deal. Said he thought it'd be okay 'because her momma's family money would keep charges off her'."

"Sweet of him," Raylan commented, nose now deep in Clare Lidet's file. "So, now all she has to worry about is that pesky escaping federal custody thing."

"And we're looking for her to what? Let her know the charges are dropped?" Tim asked. "She's a big girl, probably holed up in a swamp shack with booby traps. She'll be fine."

"Six months ago when I asked where you thought she was, you said Pacific coast of Mexico."

"She knows how to run. I thought Mexico then, I now think she's home in her swamp," Tim shrugged.

Art cocked his head and looked from Tim to Raylan, "D'you see why we think they slept together?"

Rachel got up, "I have to get back to the Ruiz case and Brian Sullivan is out there lookin' pissed. Good luck."

"Send him in on your way out," Art said as Rachel opened his door to go out. And an expensive suit stood there, "Or not, hello, Mr. Sullivan." Rachel closed the door as she left.

"Hello, Chief Mullen," the expensive suit came in saying, "As grateful as I am that Clare is finally vindicated. What the hell is going on?"

"Colin Stark's plea deal, the one that cleared Dr. Lidet, went thru yesterday, Mr. Sullivan. Since yesterday, the price on her head went from fifteen thousand to half a million, a turn of events we are more than a little curious about. If you have any clue as to your niece's whereabouts we could use them to help protect her."

"Please, he couldn't find her in the woods," Sullivan gestured at Tim, "I'm supposed to believe that he could find her in Mexico?!"

"Clare Lidet is not in Mexico," Tim said. "This I know. How's her bike?"

"You're asking me about her bike? You lose my niece in a national park, now she's got a price on her head, and you're asking about her motorcycle?!" he brimmed with indignation.

"If I see her, she'll ask. So, I ask," Tim offered with another shrug.

Sullivan's lip quirked, righteous indignation deflated, "It is safely garaged at my parents' home. It was still in working shape when I called about it 20 minutes ago."

"You called about a motorcycle?" Raylan asked.

"She really liked that bike," Tim said.

"She does," Sullivan nodded. "Tell her I'll have everything here cleaned up. If she wants. If you can find her."

"She's not in Mexico, we'll work from there."

"I love my niece, Marshal. I may not like her a lot, I may not approve of how she's handled this, but she's my sister's girl and if a hair on her head is-"

"We are obligated to testify if somethin' happens to anyone," Raylan interrupted vaguely. "The point is made. We'll get her back safely."

Sullivan turned to Raylan like he hadn't noticed him, "Pardon me. Who're you?"

"Raylan Givens, Mr. Sullivan. I am assisting Deputy Gutterson in... Protecting your niece."

"Uh huh," then to Tim, "You keep my girl safe."

"D'you see? We're not even the only ones who think it."

Sullivan's lips quirked again, "I don't know where she is. But if there's anything we can do..."

"Thank you, Mr. Sullivan," Art said, "Anything else?"

"This Stark, who framed Clare, he say why? Why she was his scapegoat?"

"Said he thought Sullivan money would save her."

Brian Sullivan's face went boardroom expressionless as he heard that and nodded, "He said this in his immunity deal?" he nodded, "Thank you, marshals." He left then, Art's office then the Marshal's office.

"That man is gonna do somethin' stupid, get her back before we have to clean that up too." Art rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Why should I send you to Louisiana?"

"'Cuz she's there," Tim said simply.

"If she's hidin' out with her daddy's family-" Art started to say.

"She's not with them. They're bounty hunters; she wouldn't put them at risk. Her dad was gunned down at home. She would not risk the family's credibility by letting them hide a fugitive. She grew up there, she knows the area. She doesn't necessarily need anyone to hide her."

"She's a doctor, right," Raylan stepped in, "There are places where that would buy her protection. Illegals, other fugitives..."

"She's in Louisiana, Art. She's there," Tim pushed. "I know her. I know her file. She's there."

"I want to keep this in this office. Sources say the price on her shot up as soon as the judge approved the deal. I need to know, can you catch her this time? And keep her? In a non-carnal sense? "

"While I appreciate you disregarding the physical limitations of concussion and blood loss-"

"Yeah, yeah, you didn't screw a fugitive. I know," Art shook his head dismissively. "Go to Louisiana."


	8. Chapter 8

Tim and Raylan managed to make it to the Waffle house in Plaquemines Parish for dinner unscathed to meet with US Deputy Marshal Mark Cafferty. Cafferty had offered to introduce the Kentuckians to the Lidet family. Presumably to help convince them that Clare won't face any charges.

"Nice hat," first words from Cafferty's mouth post-introductions to Raylan, to Tim, "You the Ranger? Thanks for not shootin' Clare. She's a good girl."

Tim nodded, "Sure. Um, anything we should know?"

"The Lidets are solid folk. Only Paul's side of 'em left really, least here. Clare's brother Chris is still in New Orleans," he pronounced it N'awlins," Danny's in Virginia with Naval Intelligence now, Jackie's still in Maine, and Cam's studyin' jellyfish or sumthin' in Florida. Ever since she found her daddy bleedin' to death in the kitchen, Clare was gonna be a doctor. She went up to see her mama's family in Lexington for med school. Lidets don't like the Sullivan's, probably 'cause the money,' but they loved Maggie. Bein' fair, everybody who knew Maggie loved her."

"I'm sorry. Jump back a bit. Found her daddy bleedin' to death?" Raylan asked.

"She came home from Tulane one weekend to find Jack bleedin' from a gut shot in the kitchen. A drug runner he'd pulled in, state hadn't made the case, released him. He shot Jack in revenge for catchin' him, Clare came in, he fired at her, and she shot him with her daddy's rifle. That not in her file?" Cafferty seemed confused.

"Most of it was, Raylan's new to the case," Tim said, "That he wasn't dead when she'd arrived, that wasn't mentioned."

"How old was she?" Raylan asked.

"Nineteen maybe. She was almost thru with her undergrad. She finished school early cuz she worked ahead when Jack sent her to military school-"

"For hitting the IA officer before he lost his job. That was in there. But-"

"Sometimes things get overlooked. Shame. I knew the family, her when she was lil. Knew the charges were shit, but-"

"Not like we're in position to help with that," Tim offered finally.

"You as good a shot as they say, Tim? Why didn't you shoot her?"

"Honest? I did wing her, graze on her arm," he showed the location on his own upper arm, "but she never gave me a clean shot. Spent a third of it up trees to tryin to sight her but your girl-"

Cafferty grinned, "Clare's a goodun', when she was about fifteen she was in the car and Jack and Paul were in a bar chasing a jumper. Guy lights out the back and Clare's outta the car chasin' him thru the swamp there. It's 10 at night and she runnin' after him. Tackles him, twists his arm, and just sits on him waitin' for Paul and Jack. Jack was the proudest papa, 'long as she couldn't hear. He tore her a new one for leavin' that car, but he was so pleased she could handle herself."

"She can do that."

Raylan glanced at Tim over his steak and eggs, "Tell me, what did ya'll think of Tim's story of her escape?"

Cafferty smiled apologetically, "Thought she slept with him and left him handcuffed to a tree, honest."

"Everyone does," Tim nodded, sipping his coffee.

"Mark, these your colleagues from Lexington?" A large, hairy Cajun came in saying. "Which one was the one lil' Clare left in the woods?"

Tim raised his hand.

"Were a Ranger, weren'tcha?"

"Sniper in Afghanistan," he confirmed ruefully.

The Cajun tilted his head, "Thank you for not killin' my niece, soldier. And for your service," he offered his hand for Tim to shake.

"Paul Lidet, Deputies Raylan Givens and Tim Gutterson. Boys, Clare's Uncle Paul," Cafferty smiled, "Paul, these boys have news."

"Mr. Lidet, charges against your niece have been dropped. And the price on her head has shot up to half a million dollars. We're here to offer her protection," Raylan said.

"What does 'charges have been dropped' mean?"

"Colin Stark, the computer tech implicated in the scam, in his deal he admitted to framing Dr. Lidet because he thought Sullivan money would save her anyway," Tim said. "The AUSA has agreed not to pursue the escape, she's clear on everything. Brian Sullivan is arranging for her to finish her residency. The Ducati is still in working condition at her grandparents' place. Protective custody and she's golden."

"Huh. That does seem nice and clean," Paul skeptically. "Might even wanna start lookin' for her."

"Do you mean to say you haven't looked for your niece in three years?" Raylan asked.

"'Course not. Clare wouldn't run without a reason," Lidet looked at Raylan like he was fresh off the short bus.

Tim stepped in, "The deal is solid, and we do need to find her for her own safety, Mr. Lidet."

"Mr. Lidet, do you know anyone that could use an off-the-books doc?" Raylan asked.

"'Round here. Everybody," Lidet said, sitting next to Cafferty. "Glad to hear Jack's bike is good, though. Important bike, Jack and Maggie eloped on that bike. It's a good bike."

"He gave her the same bike," Cafferty asked. "His baby girl?"

"Maggie, that's Clare's mama," Paul clarified for the Kentuckians, "she used to say a woman only knows what she wants at 3 times in her life.' When she's 6, she wants a pony. When she's 16, she wants a boyfriend with a motorcycle. And when she's 36, she wants her biological clock to shut the hell up'." He leant towards the Marshals, "My Laurel confirmed that last with my youngest, Jerry. So, Jack figured his baby girl, as she was Maggie's baby girl too, and Maggie run off with him only knowin' him a couple of days. Their daughter-"

"Oughta get her own motorcycle," Raylan finished, "Seems a solid 'Dad' thought, put like that."

"Exactly. So, it's good to know her daddy's bike's alright. Important history."

Raylan slipped a business card out, "On the off chance, you do look for her and find her, though. Please let her know the good news and that we come in peace."

Tim watched Paul tap the card on the table. Watched the little boy, in the orange shorts, at the counter, run out at speed. Watched the little boy pause at the door and notice him noticing him. He grinned at Tim before darting out. Taking another sip of his coffee, he appreciated that the kid at least looked both ways before running across the parking lot.

They finished dinner and Raylan and Tim were left to go to the Sleep Inn, where they were booked.

Except that Winona, or whoever Raylan was sleeping with this week, wasn't taking his calls and Tim was not of a disposition to turn down a drink after a day spent dwelling on his screw-up over different states. "What's she like?"

"Lidet? She's... I don't wanna say scary and makes me believe in psychics, but..." Tim nursed his beer and asked for another shot, "She's a little scary and, I think, a little psychic.

"She's scary?'Cuz the photo in the file, she was hot."

"She reads people, well, me."

Raylan paused to observe Tim. "Really? Huh. So..."

"Really didn't sleep with her."

"But it didn't go down like you said?"

"God, no, but I thought it was better not to dwell."

"Dwell on?"

Tim downed his shot and returned to his beer. "She and I talked and we fought. And then she escaped. It was a bit of a thing."

"You're a Marshal, she was a fugitive, arguing is par for the course."

"No, I meant fighting as in hand-to-hand. That's why women aren't really in Special Forces. Really hard to take a swing at someone you wanna fuck. Clare said it was biology, something about preserving the child bearers of the species."

"Clare? Now, she's Clare."

"I got her down on her back twice that night. Two opportunities for me just knock her out, handcuff her, and end the migraine. But I'd be on top of her and she'd just look up at me. Trusting. Not scared or smug or defiant. Or any reasonable expression I'd have no problem wiping off her face. Just...trust, like she knew it wouldn't happen... And I'd hesitate. She just short-circuited the wiring. Couldn't do it."

Raylan asked for two more shots, "So, you let her go?"

"Hell, no. She kept wrestling away and running when I hesitated. Finally handcuffed us together and dragged her back to the campfire she'd built while I was out. The concussion happened during one of the fights. I was tired by then."

"Woke up alone."

"She did leave a note," Tim finished his beer. "Still wish I had screwed her. I thought about it. Then I thought about bein' a Marshal. Then I kept picturing my CO's face, saying, 'you're re-enlisting 'cuz you fucked a fugitive, boyo!' Put me off every time."

Raylan smirked, "Guess Art is unaware of this hang-up that he should be grateful for."

"He's a little aware. He's just busy bein' your keeper."

Raylan nodded. "True."


	9. Chapter 9

And finally Clare makes another appearance...

It was well past dark when they stumbled out of Calhoun's Bar and Tim saw the little boy in the orange shorts again.

The boy wasn't alone; he was with a couple of other 9 or 10 year olds in front of the CircleK. And it would have been fairly innocent except that the boy waved to them and then ran like hell.

Tim tossed Raylan the card key and took off...into the Louisiana equivalent of brush, which was a series of profoundly dense and soggy vegetation. Tim kept up until he saw the stilt house and a dock with a gazebo that he was being led to, and the kid stopped running as soon as he reached the gazebo. The gazebo with a fire pit and people and a big-ass dog in it.

"Ah, Damn it."

Tim turned and looked at his partner, sitting on the soggy ground, holding his hat with one hand and his head in the other, "Raylan, I handed you the key so you could go back and I could chase the kid."

"You could chase the kid from the Waffle house to the girl that got away from you once before," Raylan verified, "without homeswamp advantage? Can she fix my head?"

"No, Raylan, she can't legally prescribe psychiatric medication. Nor is she a shrink," Tim offered him a hand up. "But she could patch that."

"Tell me your girl's not far," Raylan kept looking at his bloody hand.

"Less far if that is the last time you refer to her as my girl."

Raylan looked at his hand. Touched his head and looked back at the blood.

"Thanks, Raylan. I'll remember that. Thanks."

Big-ass dog was a shepherd mix that got up and barked as they approached. The boy looked up and ran into the stilt house with a wave prompting the very old man sitting in the gazebo to start cackling and Clare Lidet, in cutoffs and a tank over a bikini that didn't hide a scar from her collarbone to her cleavage, bandaging his foot, to stare at the sky in exasperation.

"Y'know I appreciate not bein' a fugitive anymore an' all, but ya'll really didn't have to come tell me yourselves," she finished wrapping the man's foot.

"Lil Clare, were you a fugitive?" the old man kept chuckling, "Why, officers, I had no idea. That's awful."

"They're Marshals,_ cher_. Not cops. And you need to remember that twice a day means every 12 hours," Clare said, rising, "C'mere, Boo."

The shepherd mix moved and leaned against Clare's bare leg, glaring at them.

"I change the bandage when I 'member. C'mon, Clare, I'm blind. A little slack, _sil vous plait_," the old man whined.

"You're blind 'cuz you won't pay attention to your damn blood sugar. You keep it up, you're losin' the leg next, jackass." She gathered all the dirty gauze and tossed it in the fire pit, squirting the flaming gauze with rubbing alcohol with a recklessness born of practice.

"You boys hear this abuse? Sure there's nothin' arrest-able?" he felt around for his cane and rose, "Suppose if ya'll ain't gonna handcuff anybody there's no point in me stayin' to watch," he chuckled, "Gentlemen, lady." He tapped his way past the stilt house, shouting, "Way to go, Swampwitch."

Clare winced, "She hates it when he calls her that." She helped Raylan into the gazebo then kept her hand on Tim's forearm as the dog watched, teeth bared. "Boo, behave." To them, "He doesn't like strangers. Why're ya'll here?" She moved to examine Raylan's eyes for concussion and the back of his head with a penlight.

"Little boy waved and ran. We followed. That was the point, wasn't it?" Tim said, watching her bare feet to Raylan's wincing amusement. "This your new waiting room, doc?"

"Looks that way, don't it?" she said, flushing the head wound with water. "Do I have repeat myself?"

"We followed the kid. Kid led to you. So, we're here. You didn't send him?"

"Remy's not my messenger. He's hers," she gestured to the grayed old lady walking over from the stilt house. "It's nice I'm not a fugitive, really, but doesn't explain why ya'll're here. In Louisiana, we have our own marshals; Cafferty could've put the word out. I'd've gotten it eventually. Why're ya'll here?"

"Price on your head is up to half a mill," Raylan cut in, as she dabbed ointment on his head. "We'd like to put you in protective custody."

"That's curious. It's like the whole thing was bullshit."

"Going back to the whole protective custody thing," Tim said.

"Yeah. Okay, that. No." She put a piece of gauze over Raylan's cut and tied a bandanna on his head to hold it.

"Seriously? This is your medical attention," Raylan asked.

"Well, I could get a stitch in if I shaved around the cut, but it'd take a while for the hair to grow back," Clare started cleaning up, tossing bits in the fire pit.

"Right," Raylan's eyes widened to Tim's amusement, "Uh. My head'll be fine. Thanks. Why won't you go into protective custody?"

"Is protective custody where I'm surrounded by marshals and somebody's tryin' to kill me? Because that sounds a lot like when I was in that transport after my arraignment, the one for the crimes I didn't do, and there was that crash and that chick tryin' to kill me and marshals all over the place and, I think we all know how well that turned out," Clare crossed her arms over chest, and the scar she got that day.

The old lady stood at the doorway with Tim, the dog moved over to her, "You're going to Lexington anyway, _cher_. May as well let 'em cover it."

"Thank you, Amy. I'll be sure to consider that idea," she said dryly. "Deputies, Madame Amelie Robichaud. Tante Amy, these are Deputies-"

"Givens and Gutterson from Lexington. Remy is quite thorough, Clare." The old lady cocked her head, as if listening for something, "You must. You're already packed and leaving anyway. Safer to go with them, too," she nodded resolutely.

Clare leaned against a support, crossing her arms, "Am I gonna die if I go back to Lexington without them?"

Amy's head stayed tilted, she nodded once, then twice. "Spirits are vague, child. Death fleeting. But luck is not meant to be pushed."

"Um," Raylan opened his mouth, "Not to shoot ourselves in the foot. But bein' framed and havin' a price on her head. I don't think Dr. Lidet's been pushin' any luck."

Amy looked at him like an indulgent parent, "Events unfold as they must. You and the poor soldier she left in those woods will bring her back. Full circle," she turned to Tim, "Have you ever not done your job?"

"No, ma'am," he narrowed his eyes at her, glancing back at the unamused Clare briefly.

"Then you will catch Clare and bring her in, as you were told," Amy beamed, "Full circle."

"How'd you know it was me in the woods three years ago?"

Amy's smile got wider, "I know what I know. These things are downright predictable when you get to my age."

Clare rolled her eyes, "This, right here, is why he calls you Swampwitch."

"What things are predictable?" Tim asked a little hesitantly.

Amy then turned and started in on Clare in what Tim and Raylan figured was Cajun French. And Clare responded in Cajun French. It went on until Amy, the Swampwitch said something that made the so-far impassive Clare's mouth drop open and say in English, "That is sooo uncalled for. Really. Just, no."

Amy then smirked like she'd won and gestured for Raylan to come with her.

Tim moved to follow as well but the old woman put her hand on his shoulder and shook her head, dark eyes twinkling. She said something in Cajun that he couldn't make out but Clare's back stiffened, so he figured it was probably best he didn't know. The dog followed, glancing back at Clare until he was sure Tim wasn't a threat. Raylan gave him a look reminding him he wasn't to be trusted alone with her. Tim ignored him and waited until Amy was out of earshot before asking again, "What's predictable?"

Clare's face was in her medical bag, packing everything up, so he couldn't see her say, "Amy thinks... Y'see, out here, with the Spanish moss filtering the moonlight, you can believe in things like 'meant to be' and 'supposed to' and-well, Amy thinks-"

"That we slept together too?" he winced.

"No," she stood with her bag and slipped on a scuffed pair of Topsiders as she poured a bag of sand into the fire pit, quenching the flames, "she knows we didn't. She just has a different explanation of why."

"Which is?"

"Amy works off a different; I dunno, system than most of the rest of us-"

"Clare. You're stalling."

She scowled at him, "If I were stalling, I'd ask why you felt the need for backup."

"Raylan's not backup," he smirked, "He's a chaperone."

She snickered, "That's really sort of sad, Gutterson."

"Come back and tell my boss then. Now, what was Amy saying?"

Clare looked out into the swamp, saying quietly, "She thinks I was framed and had to escape because you and I were 'supposed to' meet. That you're here now, not another Marshal, not a local. Well, it really just reinforces that for her."

"She thinks-oh."

Clare's eyes met him for a brief second before flickering back to the swamp, "Exactly."

"I thought it was annoying that everybody in the office thought we had sex and I let you go," he said.

She snorted, and looked at him, "Have they met you? You'd have handcuffed me to tree during the afterglow, provided you didn't as foreplay."

He smiled, "I don't know about that. You'd have expected it anyhow."

"Fair point," she nodded, still on the opposite side of the place, "we should get up to the house 'fore they think I've run again."

He nodded, and made to follow her.

On the dark path she was keeping her distance from him, respecting his space, but she stopped him in the shadows to say, "Look, whatever you put in your report-"

"That I went in late that Thursday night and woke up Friday morning with the note. And we never 'met.' I didn't change the timeline to help you getaway, I just-"

"Tried not to get nailed for fraternizing with the enemy," she smiled in the dark. "Thanks."

"I just said I didn't help you."

"I didn't think you would, not after you tried to arrest me after I finished stitching you up. I'm just grateful you didn't go all sentimental in the morning and make me wrong about you."

He felt her moving again and moved to catch her. He wrapped his hand around her forearm, keeping her from the light of the house, "About that night?"

"Are we gonna talk about it? Because I don't think this is the place."

"You talked about it with her?" he nodded to the house.

"I did. I've only know her my entire life. She and my mom were friends. I told her everything. Why?"

"Is that why she thinks-what she thinks?" he whispered, scared of the answer.

"She thinks I didn't sleep with you and fuck up the manhunt because I fell in love with you and didn't want to mess up your career. But as to her 'destiny' thing? Has more to do with you bein' here yourself," Clare replied softly. "She thinks you came here because somehow you knew I wouldn't be anywhere else. Even though I have been," she shook her head, "The logic of coming here because its familiar terrain to me isn't completely relevant to her theories."

Tim thought back to his snap judgment in Art's office, it'd been his gut. Logic dictated Belize with her cabana boy, not even his snap judgment of six months previous could be explained logically. Best to keep to himself. "We do need to talk about that night though."

She nodded, "Anything else, or can I have my arm back?"

He didn't let go but slid his hand down to catch her fingers, not being able to help himself, "Where were you six months ago?"

She huffed, "Little place called San Miguel, few hundred miles down the coast from Tijuana."

"Down the Pacific coast?"

"That's where Tijuana is. Anything else?" she was looking at his fingers holding hers.

So was he. "Nope."

"Ok. Anyone say what happened to my bike?"

"Brian said it's in working order in your grandparents' garage."

"Really?" she gave a little squeal and threw her arms around his neck, as lighthearted as he'd seen her. He could smell her sweat and shampoo as his arms went reflexively around her waist, holding her off the ground. Until she breathed his name.

Hehehe. Review ;)


	10. Chapter 10

Shit. It was hard enough hearing him want to protect her from the price on her head without wanting him to fuck her brains out.

In fact, it was downright irrational. But his hands still made her skin burn and he felt so good against her and she still had a price on her head. So nothing had really changed from the last time she'd seen him, sleeping in the woods where she'd left him.

He seemed not to be holding it against her either. Which was fair, she'd said bygones when he'd winged her.

But Amy was right. She hadn't jumped him before the concussion and bought herself time for a reason. Clare had fallen for him in the woods and she knew it. Part of her never wanted to see Tim again because she knew if she did he'd have a chance to break her heart.

As it was, she was in his arms, in the dark and she was exhilarated to hear her dad's bike was all right. And she didn't want him to let go. This was plenty enough to make her stupid.

Sex and tattoos should have the same rule to avoid trouble. No names.

She knew when she said his it was the wrong move. She should have kept her mouth shut and held on. His body stilled, then he lowered her to the ground, "Look-"

"I'm not accepting protection without a few terms of my own," she said quickly, "so this isn't protective custody. This was you giving me good news and I got emotional. I'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable," she finished formally, before turning and walking stiffly to the house, not in the mood for rejection.

"Y'know what," Tim caught her wrist again, "No. We're gonna talk about it now. In the woods, three years ago, there was something. You felt it too. I saw your face. You felt it—"

"Now? On the day I find out I may get my life back? Now you want to have some big, quasi-relationship talk?" She turned on him.

"Yeah, now. I've got a small window here, Clare. You were a fugitive and I couldn't sleep with you. Soon you'll be a under Marshal protection I won't be able to touch you then. So, yes, I want to talk about it now," he cuffed the wrist she held and put the other bracelet on himself in a parody of their fight years before. "So, what are we doing?"

Dumbfounded with shock and lust, (she always sort of knew she'd be a handcuff girl) she deadpanned, "Shouldn't the cuffs come out when we get bored?"

"Duly noted," he was looking at the cuffs with as much shock as she was, "You still got the key in your pocket?"

She shook her head, "Tim, what are you trying to accomplish?"

He jerked her close and took her mouth. Tongue invading, owning her as she pulled him back into the dark, down to the gazebo. She tasted the whiskey and beer on his breath, and nibbled the sweat on his lips as she returned the kiss, her tongue darting playfully in response to his dominance.

By the time she'd pulled him to the gazebo they were both breathless and he was pulling her tank over her head, before being distracted by her scar. "Jesus, Clare," he touched it gingerly, following without any of the hesitancy that had previously plagued him. "Jeez, baby," he whispered before kissing it softly, dragging his lips and the tip of his tongue along it as she tried to wrestle his Polo off.

"Darlin', next time the cuffs come out when we're already naked," she muttered frustratedly.

He laughed. The first time she ever heard him laugh. She broke off her wrestling to touch his face. "Do that again."

"What? This?" He nibbled at her neck again and she tugged him off by his hair.

"Laugh. I never heard you laugh. I've seen you curse and gape and deadpan. But I never saw you laugh, do it again," she ran her fingers over his face, looking at him intently.

Too intently. Tim chuckled nervously, "Later," his hands moved to her waistband, eyes on the prize, and hers followed suit, letting him lead. It wasn't exactly what he'd pictured when she'd asked him to run away with her before, but it was close enough for his hands to shake. Tim Gutterson's hands did not shake.

"Protection?"

His hand slid in his pocket, coming out with his wallet, "Don't steal it this time." He pulled the foil wrapped package out and tossed his wallet by the chair he's occupied earlier. She kicked off her shoes and he tugged her to the floor and pulled her cutoffs off, tossed over to join his wallet. He toed off his shoes and helped her with his khakis in is rush to join her on floor of the gazebo.

He pulled her bikini off one handed, the ties not being enough to keep him from tasting her breast as she nibbled his shoulder and tried roll him onto his back. He didn't let her, opting to run one hand over her other breast as the other went between her legs. "We've had _years_ of foreplay, will you fuck me, please?" she moaned, bucking her clit out of, and her wet core into his greedy fingers. Her own hands reaching for his erection. Letting her take him in her hand, his laughter at her frustration morphed into a moan as she stroked him.

"I wanted this to take longer," he said against her mouth.

"Next time," she said, rolling the condom onto him, then positioning herself beneath him, guiding him as his hands supported his weight. Slamming into her she, keened loudly and he took her mouth again. This time to quiet her. She rose to meet him with each thrust, her handcuffed hand pulling at his forearm as the other kept a firm hold on his ass. Feeling her muscles tighten around him, Tim nearly lost his control. He thought about baseball. He thought about his old CO shouting at him. He even spared a brief moment to Art yelling at him, before he came.

He tried to roll his weight off of her when he got his mind back, but her legs wrapped around him. "Stay," she ordered breathlessly.

He pushed himself up to look at her face.

Clare was still riding the aftershocks of her orgasm when Tim's weight collapsed on her. He was sweaty and heavy and familiar and she didn't want to let him go. She wrapped her legs and one arm around him, her fingers in his hair to keep him, if only for now. She hadn't meant him to move when he pulled back to look at her, but his questioning face made her already liquid heart steam. "I want you inside me," she explained softly and he kissed her. Shifting his weight to his forearms, positioned on either side of her head, he continued kissing her, slow and methodically, until she moaned again.

Tim pulled back again, "You never mentioned how loud you are, I may have to get soundproofing."

Clare smacked his shoulder, laughing, "You ass." She kept her finger in his hair as her cuffed hand managed to make it to his face. She smiled up at him, content and relaxed, running her fingers over his lips, "How long can we do this before you get in trouble?"

Tim crashed down to earth. "At least until Lexington and you accept protection. Reminds me," he rolled and pulled off the condom, tossing it in the sand of the fire-pit. He returned to her and started working his way down the unscarred side of her throat, taking his time this time.

She tugged at the cuffs, "Didn't I say you'd cuff me as foreplay?"

"Never disputed it." His mouth continued its foray to her collarbone while his hands ensured her breast did not go neglected.

"Tim."

"What?!" he finally picked his head up, looking as irritated as a satisfied man with a naked woman in front of him can.

"Uncuff me. My hand's bored."

It took him about three quarters of a second of imagine what her hand could occupy itself doing. But playing with her head apparently had its advantages…

"Tim!"

He snorted, "Fine." He spent a few precious moments getting the key and uncuffing her, only for the light fingered doctor to flip her cuff onto his other wrist. "Clare-"

She smiled, leaning him onto his back, "I promise." She kissed his lips for one brief moment before letting her mouth explore in a game of turnabout Tim was going enjoy…eventually. Her hands ghosted over his chest, making his abs tense in anticipation. By the time her mouth was on his chest, pressing her tongue to his nipple, he'd decided even cuffed hands could be used.

A/N Thank you to SassyJ for her input!


	11. Chapter 11

Tim and Clare lay back in post-coital bliss. He was still handcuffed but sated. She reached over and uncuffed him after a few moments, looking into his eyes as she did it. "So, what are we doing?"

"It's occurred to me that I want you," he said, "In every way possible."

She kissed him some more, "I have a price on my head."

"Only for now," he kissed her forehead and reached for his shirt, tossing her tank top at her. "As much as I hate the idea, we do have to get dressed. Before the mosquitoes finish us, at least."

She shook her head at him, "Guess your chaperone wasn't much good."

Tim smirked, "He was a poor choice for the role." He watched her pull her cutoffs back on and stick her bikini in her medical bag. "A little obvious, huh?"

"You should see your 'I just got laid' face," she pointed out, putting her arms around his shoulders.

"Well, I did."

They made it up to the stilt house, still enjoying the afterglow when Tim pulled her back and said, "In all seriousness, we do need to talk about protection."

"Inside. I'm hungry," she said with a kiss and Tim rolled his eyes.

She paused in the doorway to the stilt-house and looked at him, lips pressed to avoid laughing. He peeked around her to see Raylan and Amy sitting at a worn, unfinished table with a deck of equally worn Tarot cards. Raylan was looking disappointed and disbelieving. Amy was looking smug.

"We interrupting something?" Tim asked, to Clare's snicker.

Amy snickered and gestured at Clare. They bickered in French and then Clare went to the rather dated kitchen and pulled two beers from the fridge, passing one to Tim. "She's on her party trick routine," she muttered.  
"Anything good?"  
She raised an eyebrow.  
"Anything embarrassingly uncomfortable?"  
She smirked and said something to Amy before returning to the kitchen. Tim moved to follow but Amy patted the seat next to her, "Come and shuffle the cards, soldier."  
He tried to exchange glances with Raylan, who stubbornly refused to look at Tim. He sat took the cards, holding them a moment before finally shuffling them expertly at her encouraging nod.

Clare mixed the long simmering beans and spices as her mother had taught her, before plating them with rice and bringing them out to Amy and the marshals. "Dinner. Anything for ya'll?"  
Raylan smiled, "We ate earlier, but thank you."  
Clare nodded, setting the other plate down for Amy.  
"In a moment_, cher, merci_. Now, cut the deck," she nodded at Tim.  
Clare sat down across from Tim and smirked some more. Raylan watched them with disinterest. He was pretty sure what they'd been up to. Clare opted to take her plate back in the kitchen with a shake of her head after Amy muttered something in French that Raylan couldn't understand.

After Amy's card tricks, Raylan brought up protective custody again. This time Tim took point off the bat saying, "It doesn't mean being carted around like felon any more than it means we're gonna let you play bait just to get it off our desks."  
Clare smiled, and Raylan watched Amy bit her lips to watch the show. "How exactly is it going to get off your desk if I'm too protected to draw them out?" Clare countered.  
"How are you gonna live the life you just got back if you're on a slab?"  
"Quietly."  
Raylan face-palmed.  
Tim took a deep breath. Then another. "Dr. Lidet, can I speak to you without witnesses?"  
Clare turned to Raylan, said, "If he shoots me, Deputy, make sure he gets paid for it so he can buy my corpse a lot of flowers."  
Raylan did a little salute as Clare and Tim walked out and Amy broke out in giggles. He looked at the more than middle-aged woman as she regained herself. "I've missed Clare, Deputy Givens. Known her her whole life. Worried about her that long, as well. And it's not many men who'd chase her rather than run from her. I quite like your colleague."  
Raylan nodded, not quite worrying about where his mind was being led. That was Tim's problem.

Tim gripped the porch railing until his knuckles turned white, but Clare remained silent next to him.  
Finally he said, "Please don't do this. Please don't blow the heads up we have here to rush and try to finish this on your own."  
"I am not trying to finish this on my own. I wouldn't still be here if I wanted to finish this on my own," she responded softly.

He kissed her some more. She groaned, louder than intended, and through the lust-fog heard Raylan call from inside, "You two kill each other yet?"  
Tim broke off and Clare's soft giggle joined his own.  
"We're fine so far, Raylan. Now, if you could not interrupt our delicate negotiations," Tim hollered.  
Clare stifled her laugh by clinging to Tim and softly biting his shoulder, before calling back, "I told you he'd shoot me, Deputy Givens."  
"I should," Tim muttered, "End the suspense." He held her to him, enjoying her easy smile and his current hormonal exhilaration. "Please, take this seriously."

"I am. That was a shitty question to ask me."

He sighed, "Valid one, though."  
She nodded reluctantly and kissed him. Softly. Deepening it slowly, Tim kept his hands PG, around her face and drifting down her spine. Breaking it for oxygen, Clare said, "You know why I have to do this, don't you? Why I can't be passive and sit back and let you-"  
"I wish you would let me protect you," he let his fingers trail over her scar, making her shiver in the moist Louisiana heat, "I've wanted to do that for a damn long time. Do not fuck this up, babe, please."  
"Fuck it up like the next time you're up for a promotion and the guy asks why you were sleeping with a former fugitive?" she asked, eyes meeting.  
"No, fuck it up like getting dead. Please, don't do that."  
"You aren't addressing my point. 'Cause you aren't allowed to kiss protectees either, Marshal."  
"I'll say to the guy, 'I'm sorry I didn't hear them because I'm tired from having a late dinner with the governor said-fugitive's family just got elected.' How's that? And you wouldn't be a protectee forever. Just… live that long, will you?"  
She smiled up at him, a wide archless grin that got his blood flowing and his head light like the way her looking up at him all trusting used to. He gulped.  
"Nothing is going to happen to me. I won't let it. _You_ won't let it. But I _need_ to do this. Someone _stole_ my life from me. Three years I will _never_ get back. I almost lost my career, Tim. My medical license!"  
"To say nothing of your life," he cut in dryly.  
"I can't stand back and wait for ya'll to catch him. Can't let him believe I'm frightened or cowed or anything but really pissed off. Because I am, Tim. He_ stole _that time-all of it-from me!"  
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "If you'd have stayed rather than running-"  
"I'd be dead."  
"We could've protected you then!"  
"No one believed I was innocent then! Protection hinged on information I was supposed to give. Information I didn't have. I was a cop's kid, Tim; I'm not naive to the mindset."  
"And what did running accomplish? Other than three years of people who loved you worrying?"  
"It was the only choice I had!"  
"You could have stayed! I was on your side," his voice dropped to whisper fiercely, "You could have _let _me protect you then. You had a choice."  
"No, that choice was made for me. Running was the only choice I could make for myself," she whispered just as fiercely, tears in her eyes, "They were going to kill me. Marie had already tried. I don't know who even caused that accident-"  
"One of the others, her boyfriend tried to free her. We caught them in a couple of hours. Drug charges. Nothing connected to you."  
"Well, I didn't know that. I may have been paranoid but someone is out to get me. I didn't trust my chances in jail. Would you, in my position?" she held his hands, pleading, "Can you get that I've been responsible for my safety so far and I'm not reckless with it?"  
He nodded, taking a deep breath and pulling her close again, "I fuckin' hate this, y'know."  
She gave him that same smile, wrapping her arms around his neck, "I love that you hate it. I won't do it any longer than necessary, ok?"  
He scoffed, tipping his forehead to touch hers. "Why do I think you're a liar?" he asked absently, then changed the subject, "We gonna try this? When it's over?"  
"We're gonna be a 'we' when it's over? Yeah. But you gotta buy me dinner before you get any further," she kissed him.

Raylan peeked out the window at Tim and Clare holding each other. His heart ached for Winona so hard he could take a breath, but he let the moment pass and felt Amy squeeze his shoulder. "We don't always love the right people. And the right people aren't always what they should be," she said softly and walked back to the kitchen with her empty plate.  
Tim and Clare walked back in then, hands being held and glances exchanged. He avoided eye contact with Raylan as he pulled her into his lap and picked his beer back up. Tim's choice being clear.  
Clare, for her part, seemed more amused than rueful, but she shrugged an apology at Raylan as she lay back on Tim's chest and Amy shook her head and smiled at them.

"I'll return to Lexington with ya'll," Clare said, "but I have conditions about protection."

"We'll discuss those later," Raylan said with a dirty look at Tim. "You'll fly back with us tomorrow. Tim and I should go and call this in. Will you be here tonight?"  
Amy said, "Yes, she will."

Clare smiled into her beer. "I'll stick to my end, Deputy."

Raylan looked at Tim. Tim returned the look, obtusely, for a long moment before he slid Clare to the side and kissed her, saying, "Tomorrow, babe."

She walked them out, holding his hand to the dog's chagrin, and gestured up the driveway, "It'll take you to Beaumont, go left and you'll be back at Cal's before you know it."

Raylan waited all of a house and a half before turning to Tim, "You slept with her! I go away for five minutes and you're in a fugitive's pants!"

Tim gallantly refrained from laughing, "She hasn't been a fugitive for good twenty or so hours now."

"Jesus, Tim! This is…I don't even know what this is."

"Something you'd do."

"Well… Yeah. Do you know the shit Art's going to give me for you doing this?"

Tim's expression led Raylan to believe Tim knew exactly what Art would say.


	12. Chapter 12

"I need to go to church before I go back."  
"Pardon," Raylan was bleary eyed when Clare knocked on the motel room door at 7 that morning. Tim having left after sticking a Post-It to the mirror that Raylan hadn't bothered to read yet.  
"Before Lexington, I have to go to church," she repeated, holding a cup of coffee out to him, "It's black and I have to see Chris while I'm here."  
Raylan pretended to nod his understanding as he drank the sacred liquid. After a moment, it was in his bloodstream, "Your brother. Chris. The priest. Ok, yeah, sure. We can do that."  
Lidet watched his eyes for another moment reminding Raylan of his headache and Tim's comment about her being psychic. She could certainly be creepy, studying him like that. He returned the favor. She had circles under her eyes, but seemed a lot more peaceful than she'd been the previous night. Her threadbare clothes today consisted of jeans, black Converse, and a Who Dat Nation tee, with a thin gray hoodie hanging, folded on her bag. She finally asked, "You need to back to sleep?"  
He sighed, "Doesn't matter. I'm up now. If you give me a few I can hunt down Tim and we'll go. You wanna see your uncle 'fore we leave?"  
"Ducked out late last night for a visit. He's covered. Thanks," she turned to go.  
Raylan leaned out to say, "Thanks for the heads up-and the coffee, doc. I'll meet you by the lobby, ok?"  
She nodded her acknowledgement.  
Closing the door, Raylan wondered why she bothered with the heads up.

Tim had gone to the local high school to run just after he woke at six, he'd beaten the cross country team and chatted with their coach and a couple of seniors thinking about the Army for about half an hour -breaking their hearts that no terrain was as easy and flat as the state of Louisiana, but the heat was great for their endurance, if it didn't kill them first- before going back to the motel for breakfast. Only for Raylan to be awake and grumbling under his breath about people who wake up too damn early.  
Raylan glowered at him and he pressed him lips together.  
***

Stepping into Our Lady of the Rosary, Raylan removed his hat and Tim fought the urge to snicker at his current uncomfortable expression, as they followed Clare. Morning Mass, well, any Mass, was not Clare's favorite but she slunk into the last pew while her brother intoned in Latin the Lord's virtues. At least that's where she thought they were in the service, it had been a while.  
Communion was perversely satisfying in that Father Christopher Lidet forgot what he was doing for a second when he saw his fugitive sister, grinning wickedly, accepting the body and blood of Christ. She returned to Tim and Raylan with her shoulders quivering.  
"You are five years old," Tim whispered.  
"And a half," she managed to squeak out before dissolving in giggles, to the derision of the other handful of congregants.  
The marshals shook their heads.  
After Mass, Chris took his time greeting his parishioners before coming over. Chris was a pretty big guy. About Raylan's height, but wider in general, Chris scooped his baby sister in a bear hug and swung her around, to more giggles, as soon as he got there. Then he told Clare that sanctuary was only a temporary option. She responded only by introducing Raylan and Tim.  
Shaking hands, Chris offered them both a wry look before hugging his sister again.  
Clare, for her part, was unrecognizable. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, grinning insanely, and looking...completely relaxed. Like a different person. "Just wanted to say hi before I leave for Kentucky."  
"Excuse us," Chris pulled her away from the marshals. "Why you gotta go again, babe?" he took her hands, "Let it end. Stay home and live your life, now you have it back."  
She brushed his cheek with her knuckles, "I gotta finish this. Someone stole three years of my life and puts a price on my head. I gotta know why. I'll be careful-"  
"My a-butt," he exclaimed, drawing enough attention to pull Clare further to the back, "You have never been careful a day in your life, _petite soeur_. Do not give me that bull."  
"I'll have marshals protecting me-"  
"While you play bait? Is that your plan?"  
"Yes," she answered anticlimactically, squeezing her lips together.  
"Oh, Holy _Lord_."  
Tim and Raylan, despite their amusement, interrupted. "Dr. Lidet will be under Marshal protection-"  
Chris snorted his own interruption, "Doctor! Protection? Ya'll couldn't find her for three years after losing her in a National Park!" He took a deep breath, "I know her well enough, that it reflects more on her than ya'll but, she's my baby sister."  
"I can hear you," Clare cut in.  
He ignored her, continuing, "So, unless you can guarantee the safety of everything but her vocal cords, I have a problem with dangling her as bait, Marshals."  
Clare looked back at them, "Isn't he sweet?"  
"Mom and Dad are revolving in their graves right now. You know that, right?"  
"At least until they get up to yell at me and start the zombie apocalypse," she agreed with a grin.  
Chris emitted a long suffering sigh, "A zombie apocalypse would be your fault." Shaking his head, "Take care of my sister, no matter how nuts she drives ya."  
She smirked, throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek. "I love you too, dork. But I gotta go. Love you."

"Love you," he mussed her hair, "Get outta here. Brat." She left quickly and Chris had tears in his eyes while waving the Marshals out.

Catching up with Clare, she had tears too. Both Raylan and Tim opted to ignore it and hurried to meet the flight.


	13. Chapter 13

As the three walked into the Lexington Marshal's office, Art and David Vasquez came out to meet them, shaking hands with Dr. Lidet and apologizing with typical Vasquez humor about the misunderstanding.  
Lidet, gracefully, didn't deck the good lawyer.  
Art welcomed her into the conference room and said they'd be with her momentarily. Vasquez seized the opportunity. "Dr. Lidet, about Colin Stark-" Tim and Raylan heard him begin before Art began," Stark's dead. Supposedly hanged himself with a bed sheet after lights out."  
"Supposedly?" Raylan asked.  
"Well, all his sheets were still on his bed so it's a little weird. Like someone got interrupted."  
Tim face-palmed. "We looking at a bent guard or inmate with a bent guard?"  
"Dunno yet. We're pushing, so's AUSA. And you can damn sure bet her family's calling in favors, too, so we can expect something soon," Art said grimly. "Until then, we've got everyone in the corruption case under protective custody, but it does raise questions about your girl in there."  
Art and Raylan exchanged glances, Raylan shaking his head, trying to indicate that he'd talk about Tim and Clare later. Tim didn't miss the gesture, but ignored it in favor of getting into the conference room.

"Dr. Lidet and I were discussing not involving the family business. Would anyone else like to contribute?" Vasquez said dryly as Art and company entered.  
They were both leaned back, Clare's arms were crossed and Vasquez was non-glaring at her. Tim smirked at the arrangement.  
"Brian and Graham Sullivan are supposed to be here shortly to discuss it. I think it'll hold till then," Art said, sitting at the head of the table, Tim and Raylan following suit. "Dr. Lidet, I'm not entirely comfortable with staking you as bait?"  
"As a civilian or as a potential lawsuit from my mother's family?"  
"Either."  
"Well, Chief, I'm not _entirely_ comfortable being under Marshal's Service protection for an undefinable period of time, so we're both unhappy."  
Art tilted his head. She wasn't quite a pistol, but she'd be plenty of trouble. What was worse, was that she wasn't wrong. He couldn't keep his people there. She didn't qualify for witness protection, while her family could certainly afford private protection, she still couldn't practice medicine with the threat against her. Tim had argued similar points for years, pain in the ass. And that was before Stark was given the bed sheet exit. Without tracing the hit, she was in a real shitty limbo, Art sympathized. "If you're sure, we'll put you in a safe house and keep deputies on you as you do everything. Including the family business, if you're willing."  
She did swallow at that, Art noted approvingly, she didn't want to put her family at risk. "Fine. If my uncles are willing, we can have the corporate security team in touch with you today."  
"Okay. Rachel will be available this evening and Raylan will shadow you and bring you to the safe house today." Art caught Tim's blank look and spared a thought that the boy missed out on a career in poker, "Tim, if you could meet the Sullivans and escort them up here. They should be here by now."  
Tim continued his non-expression as he left. Clare diligently didn't look until he was gone, but Art caught her expression and cursed internally. Well, at least _this_ one wasn't going to sleep with Raylan. "According to what I heard of your agreement for protective custody, we will arrange for controlled situations where you will seem vulnerable. But you will have to agree to our safety concerns."  
She nodded once, "Within reason. Please continue, Chief."  
"Your reason or mine, Doctor?"  
She smiled. "I don't want to die, don't worry. But anything terribly obvious, such as traveling with a cowboy hat day after day -no offense- may qualify."  
Vasquez and Art exchanged glances before Raylan cut in, "Tim and I can alternate day shifts, doc. It's not a problem."  
Art didn't realize he was glaring until Vasquez gave him a puzzled look, wiping his face of expression he continued, "Regardless of headwear, you will not leave your Marshal detail?"  
"Agreed."  
Too easy. "You will respect their concerns and react accordingly?"  
"Agreed."  
Way too easy. Art looked over. Vasquez wasn't buying it either. Raylan was apparently very focused on the file in front of him. Uh huh.  
Tim walked in with Brian and Graham Sullivan then. They sat next to their niece without much greeting, Brian squeezed her hand and Graham, her shoulder, before they stared down Vasquez and Art. Tim leaned against the doorframe.  
"Clare's brothers have signed powers of attorney putting their votes in Clare's name again," Graham Sullivan, a fifty something with already silvered hair in expensive pinstripes, started. "I trust that will not be a problem."  
Vasquez shook his head. "No, no problem. Dr. Lidet is off scot-free for escaping federal custody. But we do want your _full_ cooperation with regards to any attempt on Dr. Lidet. Regardless of where it may occur, Mr. Sullivan."  
"We would not let our current distrust of the government affect the safety of our family, Counselor, any more than you would let any disdain for our business affect the fulfillment of your duties to justice and the Constitution," Brian Sullivan answered, dividing his attention.  
Art recognized the move, didn't quite understand it, but filed it away and paused to study his new protectee. She seemed annoyed by her uncles' stunt, not quite shaking her head at them, but her jaw was clenched, dark eyes steely. She'd squeezed her uncle's hand back when Brian had taken hers but she didn't look at him and he didn't look at her.  
She cut in before he could during the standoff, "_Gentlemen_, if we could focus on security for the main office it would certainly speed this up. If I'm to resume my seat as tiebreaker, I'll need to be brought up to date on everything. Including the elephant ya'll and the AUSA are exchanging soulful looks over," she drawled, breaking up the suited testosterone.  
"Perhaps Dr. Lidet and her family could discuss that while we get some coffee, Mr. Vasquez," Art said, rubbing more of his hair away and rising.  
Vasquez rose with a nod, muttering outside the conference room, "I thought you said the coffee was bad, Chief."  
Art nodded as Tim and Raylan joined them in the middle of the bullpen. "It is. What's going on between AUSA and the Sullivan family?"  
Vasquez sighed, "In the past year or so, they've had eyes on them. Them and Morley. Questions about collusion, business practices. Paper crimes, but expensive."  
"Morley's a competitor. And Sullivan's not publicly traded, so what's going on?" Tim asked, knowing way more than he wished about the running of the Sullivan family business.  
"It's SEC crap. But they're prepared to rattle political sabers to keep us out of it, so we're curious. Your girl's return is a possible way in."  
Raylan rubbed his face, "So, when she said tiebreaker-?"  
"Dr. Lidet was signed over power of attorney for all her brothers' stake in the company, when she came up to Lexington. Gives her control over a fair portion of it," Art explained.  
"Her mother's third. All Clare ever did was act as a tiebreaker between her uncles," Tim finished, "If they've been into something shady since she's been a fugitive, they aren't gonna want her back in there..."  
Art and Raylan nodded, not needing the thought finished. "We'll look into what we can of their transactions and associations, but we've kept an eye on them looking for Lidet," Art told Vasquez.  
"I'll see what I can do with the Bureau sources who leaked the contract, see if they know more," Vasquez offered.  
"They still want us take point on this?" Art verified grimly.  
"Anything to keep Raylan from Detroit mobsters."

"What the hell?" was all Clare asked when the feds left the room.  
"Now, Clare-" Brian started.  
"_What. The. Hell_."  
Graham smirked, "Well, between the economy and a fugitive with a thirty percent interest, we're not quite living the dream right now, kiddo. Morley's got us against the wall and is setting up to offer mergers and buyouts as the carrot."  
"Setting up? It can't be that bad."  
"A little bird has mentioned his lawyers are boning up on hostile takeover law," Brian said grimly, "It'd kill Dad if he knew. We've been holding the fort but-" he looked at his brother.  
"You two can barely stand each other," Clare finished grimly, cursing her own brothers for passing the buck on Mom's family business. She couldn't really hold it against them though. The whole reason behind accepting the Sullivan's med school deal was that Clare was already acting tiebreaker since she'd come in to her part of the company at 21. Being in Lexington would just make it official so her brothers had signed their voting rights to her and she'd kept her nose in it until she'd run. It was why she understood them not coming up with her bail money then and it was why she understood their bickering with the AUSA now. They were busy trying to avoid corporate annihilation, explaining their actions to a bunch of suits with a government stipend was an unnecessary headache.  
"Does Morley have a little bird? Is that why we're closing ranks?"  
"We don't know, but having you cleared has boosted confidence with our vendors, so, thank you," Graham smiled. "Guess you can't see your grandparents and get your bike?"  
"Not today, at least," she smiled back, "We'll handle this. It'll be okay."  
Brian sighed, "On a brighter note. We've spoken to UK, you can complete your residency after the Marshals give an all-clear on the threat and you take a couple of re-qualifying exams. The dean didn't think they'd be a problem for you."  
"They won't be. Thank you."  
"Are you going to stay in Kentucky after your residency? Or have you thought that far ahead?" Graham asked as Art knocked and came in.  
"I haven't thought," she said honestly, studiously not looking at Tim. She still had at least a year left of her residency anyway.  
"Izzie would love you to stay," Brian said, referencing his teenage daughter.  
"Tell her we're shopping when this is over. Tell her I promise shoes and junk food," Clare had only so many girl relatives, and she cherished the now fifteen Isobel highly among them.  
Brian laughed, "Like she needs more shoes."  
Art cleared his throat, "Mr. Vasquez had another appointment to get to, he sends his regards."

Neither Sullivan appeared to buy that last bit.

Art continued, "We'll be keeping Dr. Lidet at our facility and shadowing her daily activities, such as they are at this point."

Brian cut in, "When can the rest of the family see her? I assume it will be some monitored affair, like she's _still_ a criminal. But when can Clare see everyone else?"

Clare had squeezed his hand during his speech, trying to cut him off softly she said, "It's not that simple, Brian, everyone around me is in danger. You want Izzie or Gramps to be caught in the crossfire? Please."

Graham nodded at Art, "I see your points, and certainly she sees them, but these are valid questions. She's our family and she's been vindicated. She has rights."

"And I'd imagine she'd like to be the one to invoke them," Tim mentioned from his post at the door. Raylan grew very interested in his files again as Art shot him a look, before saying, "Dr. Lidet will be free to see whomever she wishes shortly enough. If that's all, Tim, take point on security at the office. Dr. Lidet, I need to you to sign a few more forms before Raylan takes you to the safe house." He stood up, "Pleasure to finally meet you Dr. Lidet. Mr. Sullivan. Mr. Sullivan." Art made for his office with meaningful looks at Tim and Raylan, who followed him grimly.

In Art's office, Tim and Raylan both took their respective places in anticipation for a dressing down sneak peek. The real shit-storm would be without an audience in the conference room.

"Tell me you didn't sleep with a protectee, Tim."

"I didn't sleep with either a fugitive or a protectee, Art," Tim answered honestly.

Art looked at Raylan, "I don't know why I let you associate with the kids. You're a horrible influence."

"I didn't leave them alone for very long, Art. And I was never far away."

"Yeah, I find the hat a bit of a cockblock," Tim offered.

Art took a deep breath. "I can't leave you alone with her. And you know the case best, Tim. So, how do I explain not posting you with her? Without mentioning that she's got cow eyes for you and you've been chasing her for three years, of course."

"I'll be looking into the source of the contract. I know the players best. It's reasonable for me to be out looking for the threat."

"Offense as the best defense?"  
"Tim can handle her protection on days when she's out," Raylan cut in. "We'll both investigate. And she's agreed to be bait—"

"Which I'm sure her boyfriend is pleased about," Art said sarcastically, then continued to Tim, "I'm supposed to put you in charge of her then? You're my _sniper_, for Chrissakes!"

"Are you questioning my detachment?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Art sighed, "I'm anticipating flack I may receive later." He rubbed his face. "All right, get to work," he waved them out then called to Tim at the door, "Hey, I do like her."

"Me too."

"You ever gonna tell me what really happened in those woods?"

"Later."


	14. Chapter 14

At the safe, house Raylan carried Clare's bag in while she carried her medical bag. Setting them on the generic kitchen table Raylan asked, "You want the grand tour?"  
"I want to go shopping. Graham brought me a credit card. Told me to get better clothes since everything burned up in my apartment and fugitive-wear 'didn't become me'."  
"'I'm here to keep you alive, not help you shop'," he parroted Tim reflexively.  
She chuckled, "Apt quote, Givens. But if we're not gonna shop, I'm gonna need to know about the hat."  
He sighed, "I tried it on and it fit."  
"Darlin', that's not something that _'fits'_ as much as it's something that's a _life choice_. Wanna try it again?"  
"It fit," Raylan shrugged. "I'm gettin' a glass of water, would you like one?"  
"Please. I heard about you…back when I was running. The marshal that shot a cartel gun thug after giving him 24 hours to get outta town."  
"Good to have a reputation, I guess. Ice?"  
"Just a little. Can't imagine that played well with your bosses."  
"Nope, " he passed her a glass.  
"Would you do it again? Knowing what you know now?"  
Raylan blinked at her, sighed, "Honestly? Probably. Why?"  
"I was in Haiti at the time of it. Heard about it later, what he did at that coconut plantation from a first responder, two-bit guy, named Rene Benoit. Won two hundred off him in a poker game while he was telling the story of dynamite and duct tape." She sipped her water and Raylan sat back and measured her the way he didn't in New Orleans.  
"You in love with him?"  
"Pardon?"  
"Tim. Are you in love with him?"  
"Little presumptuous to ask, even if it was your business. I barely know him, honestly."  
"Only takes a minute. I've been there."  
"That what Amy was talking about with you? She's good with that."  
"We talking about me now?"  
"We were, yeah."  
"You love your daddy?"  
Clare nodded, "Best man I ever knew. Yeah, I love my daddy."  
"Mark and Paul were telling stories about him when Tim and I met them."  
She smiled, "My daddy was good for stories. You wanna talk about my daddy?"  
"You watched him die?"  
"Held his hand after I shot that runner. Didn't go help the man I shot either, that affect your opinion of me?"  
"You called it in."  
"I did. Am I good enough for your colleague?"  
"Is that what you think I'm doing?"  
"Aren't you?"  
Raylan took a sip. "I'm stuck protecting you, doc. Maybe I just want to think you're playing it straight."  
"You gonna share the verdict?"  
"Well, I didn't see your face when you were told the man who implicated you to begin with was murdered."  
"One theory is that he was murdered to keep his mouth shut about who told him to implicate me."  
"That is one theory," he agreed as his phone rang. "Excuse me." Raylan stepped out of the kitchen.  
She nodded, drinking her water.  
"Raylan, you are never going to guess where the Sullivan's got the name of their head of security from," Tim started.  
"You wanna save me from asking?"  
"Wynn Duffy."  
"What the hell," Raylan glanced back at Clare, "Did anyone tell you what they were doing talking to Wynn Duffy?"  
"Apparently Duffy handled both Graham _and_ Brian Sullivan's home security a few years ago and they got chummy."  
"I could see that happening. They compared notes about plastic sheeting."  
Tim chuckled, "Either way, I know the head of security from Afghanistan. He's pretty solid. The Duffy connection opens a few doors for_ you_ though."  
"I'll visit him tomorrow... if _you_ take your girl shopping."  
"Oh, Art'll love that. The veins in his forehead especially."  
"I won't tell if you won't."  
"It's a deal. Maybe I could get her into a Victoria's Secret dressing room. They probably have pretty good security," and with that, Tim hung up.  
Raylan scowled at the phone briefly before walking back in the kitchen, "Don't suppose you're familiar with the name Wynn Duffy?"  
Clare thought for a second, "Nope. Don't suppose I am. Should I be?"  
"He installed your Uncle Brian's home security. Also, passed along the name of the current head of security. Also, a point man with the Dixie Mafia."  
"That's a hell of a resume," she nodded. "Don't suppose ya'll keep bourbon here?"  
"Doubtful."  
"Yeah," she nodded, looking rather dismal.  
"On the bright side, Tim'll take you shopping tomorrow," Raylan said.  
"That'll be fun. Not remotely uncomfortable or awkward as he'll be all eagle eyes and I'll be distracted by shoes that I have no reason to wear."  
"You get distracted by shoes?"  
"It's an estrogen thing."  
"My ex was like that."  
"I'm sorry?"  
"What?"  
"Being compared to someone's ex is rarely a compliment, Marshal."  
"Raylan. And it's about the limit of what ya'll have in common. The shoe/estrogen thing."  
Clare purses her lips for a minute, "Messed you up good, didn't she?"  
"Are we gonna sit here and talk all evening?"  
"Suppose I should take you up on that tour then? Huh?" she stood, " 'Lead on, MacDuff'."

Tim was having a less conversational time with former First Sergeant Emmett Quinton. Tim knew Q from when Q had been an Airborne Ranger in Afghanistan and respected him. They'd been drinking and even arrested together, if not actually been assigned to many of the same missions. Perusing floor plans and threat assessments was less than stimulating though.  
"So, how do you know Duffy?"  
"When I got back, Markos -you remember him?- asked me if I wanted to help him out with something. Turns out he was security for some Dixie Mafia asshole named Arnett. I assisted a few times, Duffy and I talked. The man doesn't blink enough. And I mentioned it really wasn't the sort of thing I was into. Few days later, he called about a position here. Haven't heard from him since. Why?"  
"I'm more concerned about his eyebrows," Tim mentioned absently, before adding, "You've been here five years, what do you think of the family?"  
"Other than that they're less than pleased about your doctor's taste in men? They didn't like her mother's taste in men either. Graham and Brian are pretty straight. Brian's a little stiff. A little too normal, but nothing's dripped from the trunk of his car and he doesn't hide things.  
"Graham's an introvert. He and his wife just keep to themselves. He and Brian can't stand each other. Your girl was here to pick sides between them. Always thought it was a shitty way to spend her free time but she always seemed to like fucking with them."  
Tim smirked, "My girl?"  
"They curse your name, man. Don't know if they had plans for her marry someone respectable but ever since you lost her in Daniel Boone they've got you pegged for an in-law. Something about her being just like her mother, but I don't know the story. I wish you luck though."  
Tim sighed, and scratched his head, "Don't suppose you could fish around for that story for me?"  
Q grinned, "Not gonna ask your girl?"  
"She's a protectee, Q, not currently my girl."  
"Currently? Nice, wordsmith. I'll ask around."  
Tim pursed his lips. The Sullivan's would be in-laws from hell, but his Marshaling career would be safe. He went out to meet with Brian Sullivan again.

Clare unpacked her meager wash kit and felt her stomach twist and coil. A familiar bad feeling she hadn't had since...well, the last time she'd been in Kentucky with Tim and someone trying to kill her. _Oh, Tim..._  
She raced out to find Raylan lounging on the couch, "Call Tim back."  
"What? Why?" he pulled his phone out anyway.  
"Just, please. Call him," she seemed so frightened as Raylan speed-dialed, he was getting nervous himself.


	15. Chapter 15

Tim and Brian Sullivan were walking through the parking garage discussing the possibility of Clare visiting her grandparents when he got the call, "Excuse me." To the phone, "Gutterson… Hey, Raylan..."  
Brian nodded and they both stood stupidly in the middle of the lane when Brian decided to use the remote start on his Volvo.  
Tim was just listening to Raylan say Clare had a bad feeling when the Volvo exploded.

Raylan's eyes jumped to Clare when he heard the explosion. "Tim… Tim?"  
Her knuckles were white on the back of a chair until Raylan's expression changed as he heard, "We're ok. Brian Sullivan's car just exploded. I gotta call this in. Tell Clare I'll be by as soon I can. I-," Tim sighed, "I'll be there soon."  
Tim clicked off and Raylan set his phone down. "He and Brian are fine," Raylan started, "Brian's car exploded while I was talking to him. Do you know why?"  
Clare came around the chair and sat with a thud. She shook her head, "Not unless it's my fault for coming back."  
"Your fault?"  
"Well, someone wants me gone. Frames me for corruption, puts a price on my head, and tries to kill my family. Not to sound arrogant, but I _think_ someone really doesn't like me."  
Fair point. Raylan nodded, "He'll be over as soon as he can."  
"I know," she said absently, pulling her knees to her chest like a child.  
"You know?"  
She nodded. "I do. What's gonna happen to Brian now?"  
Raylan's phone rang and he said, reaching for it, "I don't know." Answering Art, he made for the kitchen. "Where do you want me?"  
"Bring Clare into the office. We'll get that family reunion outta the way and I want to talk to them together. This family's starting to affect my easygoing demeanor."  
Raylan spared a thought to that 'easygoing demeanor' before shuddering. "We'll be there in 20."  
Art hung up with a grunt and Raylan told Clare they were headed back to the office.

When Raylan and Clare arrived at the office, Rachel was calming Brian Sullivan's wife, Gretchen and three kids. Tim, Art and Agent Keaton, of the BATF, were talking to Brian in the conference room and various other agencies were milling around.  
Brian's teenaged daughter was the first to notice them, lunging for Clare and nearly knocking her off her feet. "Clare-bear!"  
Brian rose, watching his daughter and niece hug before his eyes met Tim's. He may not like Clare, but Brian Sullivan certainly seemed to have a healthy respect for family.  
Raylan went for the conference room, dodging dirty looks from Rachel. "Hey."  
Art cleared his throat, "Can you and Rachel make sure the family is situated? We'll talk to Dr. Lidet shortly."  
Raylan nodded and closed the door, returning to a much smugger Rachel. "Mrs. Sullivan, this Deputy Givens. Raylan, Gretchen Sullivan, Brian's wife, and their kids, Ethan, Evan, and Isobel."  
The boys were about eight or nine, the wife was a well-preserved late-thirties and Isobel was the anti-Loretta in Ralph Lauren, still with an arm around Clare.  
Clare, for her part, had an arm around Isobel too. Not letting go as she hugged her aunt and cousins before sitting and pulling one of the boys into her lap, keeping one eye on Tim.  
"We'll be putting you all in protection tonight while we clear the home since it was unattended all day," Rachel began.  
"Can we stay with Clare?" Isobel asked. Rachel glanced at Clare, who nodded.  
"We can certainly look into it," Rachel promised.

"No, I don't know who'd try to blow up my car," Brian Sullivan said for the fourteen millionth time. "Short of the CEO of Morley Enterprises. I don't piss very many people off, Chief Mullen."  
"Oh, you'd be surprised," Art smiled mirthlessly as Agent Keaton's phone rang, Art nodded for him to take it.  
As Keaton left, Tim asked, "What about Morley?"  
"They're a business competitor. No, I don't seriously think Edgar Moss would try to kill me, but he has been trying to worm his way in since before Clare left."  
"Does he know Clare?"  
"Yes, from business and cocktail parties and the like. They've met. I think he genuinely likes her, too," Brian seemed rather puzzled by that. "When she was accused, and with the arrest, he called and talked to her. He told me himself he thought the charges were obscene. Didn't stop him from using it against us though."  
Art and Tim exchanged glances.  
"Has Edgar Moss called lately?" Art rubbed the back of his head.  
Brian looked at him, "Yesterday afternoon. He said he heard Clare had been vindicated. Said it was about time. Asked if she'd be coming back to town, too."  
Brian Sullivan had gone expressionless again, reminding Tim unhealthfully of Wynn Duffy himself. "Mr. Sullivan, we will need to speak to Mr. Moss. But you need to be aware that nothing can happen to Mr. Moss. Is that clear? No calling Wynn Duffy and asking for a favor."  
"Wynn Duffy? I haven't spoken to him in years. Gretchen and I redid the security when we remodeled the house a couple of years ago. What does he have to do with this?"  
Art and Tim gaped for a moment at his seeming honesty. "How much research did you do on Mr. Duffy before you hire him for your home security, Mr. Sullivan?" Art asked.  
"Low level Dixie Mafia, with a better record than any system advertised on cable. I thought it was better I pay him for protection than wait for him to decide to rob us. I changed to group of returning Marines, Duffy said he was sorry to lose my business, but nothing ever came of it."  
"When was this?"  
"Two years ago. After Clare left. Is this even about her, Chief? Or was she just a pawn to distract?"  
"It's looking that way," Tim answered, to Art's derision.  
"Do not do anything, Mr. Sullivan," Art cautioned as Agent Keaton knocked on the window. "Go and see your family. I've gotta talk to my people."

Raylan and Rachel joined the conference room powwow while Clare and the Sullivan's sat in the bullpen. Tim's eyes met Clare's more than once and he was reminded how she knew to roll off that log into the Rockcastle in Daniel Boone.  
His attention was returned to the matter at hand when Keaton said, "Well, it wasn't a Crowder creation –no Emulex- but we've seen it before, over in Frankfurt. It was wired to the ignition and the gas tank. If Sullivan hadn't remote started..."  
"Yeah, we know," Tim said. It hadn't been much, his ears had stopped ringing by the time he made it to the office after checking his own car, hadn't damaged more than the vehicles immediately around it. It had been a surgical strike at Brian Sullivan or a scare tactic for Clare. Neither option boded well.  
"Clare's open to the Sullivan's being in the same safe house for tonight," Rachel said. "If we post more people there, we can consolidate their protection."  
Art nodded. "I wanna dangle Lidet as bait tomorrow," he said, watching Tim's face, "Try to coax the sucker out. Have her talk to this Edgar Moss, too."  
Tim nodded. "We can arrange a meeting at their office. And Clare wanted to go shopping, we can stake out a shopping center, too."  
Keaton raised an eyebrow, "Ambitious. Look, I'll get this report to you ASAP, but I gotta get back to the scene."  
Art shook his hand and turned to Tim, "What shopping center?"

Clare watched the agent leave and Tim turn to his boss. Her stomach continued twisting as her heart ached. He'd nearly been killed. She'd nearly lost him. Didn't even really have him. Barely knew him. But the idea of him being gone was suffocating her.  
Concern for her family was keeping her in her seat, concern for his career as well. But she needed to touch him, to _feel_ he was alright. After a moment, he nodded at her and she let Izzie go with a squeeze of her shoulder and went over to him.

Tim pulled Clare into the locker room as soon as he had the chance. Pinning her to the closed door his kissed her silly and left them both breathless. He pulled back a few inches and she took a shuddering breath.  
"I thought I lost you," she said in a small voice, touching his face with tears in her eyes. "Next time _you_ talk to me. Don't give Raylan a message. _You. Talk. To. Me_."  
He smiled, "I think your bad feeling saved my life. Brian's too."  
"Good. Then you'll listen to it in the future. Jackass," she kissed him again.  
"If you call, I'll listen, babe," he agreed, noting that she wasn't surprised by his comment at all. But he settled for just being happy to hold her. And that she wasn't demanding he never do it again.  
She looked up at him, and he prepared himself for 'The Talk.' The one where he explained this was what he was and he wasn't changing. He was first one through the door, always, and he knew he was there for a reason. He was trained for it. He wasn't Raylan. He didn't look for trouble, but he wasn't wired to walk away from it. "Will you be staying with us tonight? Will your Chief let you?"  
He blinked. "We haven't discussed it. But I'm taking you to the office and shopping tomorrow."  
She let out a weak chuckle, "I was ready to settle for the Internet." She nodded, "Ok. You'll be with me?"  
He nodded. "You're not mad?"  
She looked so confused he had to kiss her again. "Mad at what?"  
"At my job. At what I do."  
"Baby, I do remember how we met. I know what you are," she kissed him, smiling. "I may still need to know who you are. But I've always known where you stand, _cher_."  
He kissed her deeply, pressing his forehead to hers, "They asked you if you were staying? Your uncle's, before? What'd they mean?"  
She sighed, peeved at not being kissed, "When I was doing my residency, I talking about traveling. Working with Doctors Without Borders or something. Before I spent three years practicing on the run, of course. I'm not going anywhere, Tim. You caught me. You're stuck with me. Blame your boss the next time he glowers at you."  
He smiled, "I will, but he likes you."  
She managed to mutter, "Liar," against his lips before he took her mouth and she lost her mind.


	16. Chapter 16

Art gave Tim five minutes to spend with her before he was going to talk to her. He didn't want to bust in on them, but it had been years since one of his own kids had given him the chance.  
Knowing better than to knock, Art went in through the conference room door and saw the pair against the other door, heading towards second base. With admittedly perverse amusement, he cleared his throat loudly.  
Sadly, neither jumped. But he was treated with death glares from the both of them. "And I'm supposed to believe nothing happened in Daniel Boone. You never met before yesterday in New Orleans?"  
"We were south of Plaquemine yesterday, Chief. And what kind of girl do you take me for?" Clare replied, her hand on Tim's waist. Tim's lips squeezed shut.  
Art got the message loud and clear. He may be Tim's boss, but she was his woman. He grinned, "Fair enough, doc. But I need to talk to both you and my deputy."  
She and Tim looked at each other and she kissed him softly before letting herself out.  
Tim didn't look at him immediately, watching the space she used to occupy. "How serious is this?" Art asked quietly.  
Tim pursed his lips, "Honestly? No idea. But she had Raylan call me because she had a bad feeling and I stopped walking to Brian Sullivan's car to take that call. He stopped walking because we were talking. He started the car from there because he had the time to do it. She saved my life today."  
"She had a bad feeling?" Art rubbed his face. "She get these often? Or is this like Eve Munro?"  
"Munro did know which gym Raylan'd be at," Tim pointed out.  
Art ignored it, "She's in love with you."  
Tim blinked at the floor.  
"Oh, Jesus," Art clenched and unclenched his jaw, "How do you see this working out?"  
"When I'm up for a promotion I just yawn and say, 'I'm tired from having a late dinner with my in-laws and the governor'," he recited.  
Art sighed, "Thought about this a bit. Huh?"  
"I told you I'd tell you what happened later. Now's later?"  
"After we get the Sullivan's to the safe house," Art nodded. "If you protected her-"  
"I didn't change the timeline to help her, Art. I've _always_ thought she'd be safer with us."  
Art believed him. "When they're at the safe house. We'll talk."

As it was Art wanted a word with Clare by herself, Tim and Raylan had had the shit played out of them before and Art was damned if he'd let it happen again.  
He motioned her into the conference room and closed the door, "Edgar Moss?"  
"CEO of Morley. Manipulative prick. Banters well. Pretty standard antisocial personality disorder. Why?" she shot back, keeping eye contact.  
Art was running the show, and she wasn't asking the questions, "Antisocial personality disorder?"  
She sighed, shot him a look and agreed to play his game, "Most people with true antisocial personality disorder are completely functional without killing other people. They're our Senators and Congressmen and crooked CEO's. Having no recognizable guilt or moral compass, makes it easier for them to pursue power and money. They're also excellent manipulators because they have to watch everyone else to teach themselves social cues and appropriate responses. My professional opinion, having met and spoken to Edgar Moss, albeit outside a medical setting, is antisocial personality disorder. But I'm not a psychiatrist, Chief." She paused, making a face, "He's always seemed a bit like Graham to me, really."  
Art nodded, "He communicated with your family about your arrest. Extended condolences..."  
"It would fit," she responded clinically, wheels in her head spinning. "He'd get a rise over his condolences being thanked. Is there evidence?"  
Art scoffed, "It's been a day. We're good, but there are limits... The AUSA is interested in your family's dealing with Morley."  
Clare looked at Art, weighing her options before confiding, "They may be attempting a hostile takeover. Since I've been gone, Morley has been making...gestures to get a foot in our door. Securities are iffy area of the law. Sarbanes-Oxley didn't exactly get rid of loopholes as much as make different ones, I understand."  
Art nodded, "Thank you, Dr. Lidet."  
"Clare," she corrected softly. "I don't want to Tim to pay for anything I've done wrong, Chief."  
"I respect that," Art said gruffly, following her gaze to Tim. "You ought to get outta here now though. Rachel and Raylan will stay with ya'll tonight."  
"Thanks, Chief."

Tim escorted Clare out to the cars with her family, her teenaged cousin's eyebrows went deep into her bangs when Clare introduced him. And she squeezed his hand as she got it and he brushed her hair from her face.  
Back up in the office, he plowed through his reports for the day waiting for Rachel's call that they were at the safe house.  
When Art called him in, he had an inch of his precious Pappy in a glass for him, "I tracked her until that evening. Finally catching up with her at dusk."  
"Romantic," Art quipped.  
Tim plowed on with his tale. How he had intended to wing her, the gunman. Art didn't interrupt until he got to the part where he pulled her out of the tree. "What did she think she was gonna do? You were right there!"  
Tim chuckled, "I never asked." His smile faded, "She was so scared then, Art. And so stubborn. I liked her and... I didn't let her get away."  
He got to the part with the possum and his concussion and talking before they fell asleep before Art stopped him. "Boy, you've been in love with a fugitive for years. What the hell have you been doing not looking for her?"  
"Whenever you asked me where she was I had an answer, just no evidence for you to send me there," Tim smiled.  
"So she was in Mexico six months ago?"  
"San Miguel, south of Tijuana, she said."  
"Uh huh. So, you woke up alone?"  
"The second time, yeah. Friday morning, like I said. I never lied for her. And I told her that."  
"But she's willing to lie for you? You never wondered about that?"  
"No. I wondered why I couldn't hit her."  
"Because you're a sap," Art stated baldly. "Falling for fugitive, that's up there with sleeping with a witness."  
"I never slept with a fugitive."  
"But you spent last night with her."  
"Some of it," Tim allowed. "Not after she'd accepted protection."  
Art rubbed his face. "I hope you used some. People will be doing math on you and that girl, no matter who her family is," Art cautioned. "You gonna marry her?"  
Tim didn't start, a fact he was surprised by, "Probably."  
"Way she looks at you, you'd better."  
Tim smiled, "Give it a little time. She's still in limbo. I don't want too much thrown at her now she's got her life back."  
Art smiled, "Uh huh. I hear ya."  
***

Tim stayed late to run through the parking garage surveillance tapes with the most current list of license plate numbers Q had provided, which was sadly only the employees that had been in _two_ days ago. It was still marking them off the list though. Art watched him in the conference room after reminding him he had a full day of protecting Clare tomorrow. Tim nodded and said, "Here's hoping I won't have to protect her. Good night, boss."  
"Uh huh. Night."


	17. Chapter 17

The next morning Tim was bushy-tailed, if not bright-eyed when he arrived at the safe house around 7 with a variety dozen box of donuts. Clare was yawning in sweats when Rachel opened the door, "She's making coffee. Don't distract her," Rachel warned when he came in, pulling a glazed.  
"I've already pressed the button, Rachel," Clare smiled, "It's on its way. Ooh, sprinkles."  
Tim quirked an eyebrow and Rachel whispered, "Raylan made the last pot."  
"Ah," he nodded. "Tell me you're not shopping in that."  
"Do you even know what time it is?" Clare scowled. "_Guys_..."  
"You know nothing's open right now. Don't give her trouble, Izzie's been giving her enough," Rachel smiled, sympathetic to teenaged troubles.  
In the kitchen, Clare had poured herself and Rachel cups and was mid-sip when Rachel said, "I'll be in the living room."  
"Izzie?" Tim asked.  
"My cousin. I'd promised shopping when we saw each other again, but then Brian's car...so," she shrugged, "I'll make it up to her later, but she's 15 and sulking."  
"You close?" he asked, helping himself to coffee and the other donut with sprinkles.  
"Yeah. Sullivan's aren't easy to put up with, we have a lot to talk about."  
He nodded, "Uncle Brian would be tough to take on a daily basis."  
She chuckled, sliding up on the counter, "What's our itinerary? Y'know, for after the stores open."  
"Shopping plaza on Kings Road, then a 2 pm meeting with Edgar Morley at Brian's office. Then you get to go over reports with Graham."  
""Hmm." She sipped her coffee, "Uh, so, how many times did you hassle my uncles after I ran?"  
"Why?"  
"Izzie knew your name. Apparently has for years... So, do I need to ask again...or are you gonna answer me?"  
Tim pursed his lips, boosting himself up next to her, "Couple of times."  
"I don't think a 'couple of times' gets you a nickname, sport."  
He took it on the offensive, "Why do they say you're just like your mother when they call me that nickname? If it's the nickname I'm thinking of..."  
"No. _I'm_ asking you a question. And how many nicknames do you have?"  
"I answered your question and you haven't said what the nickname is."  
"Unsatisfactorily answered. _And_ you haven't said what nickname you're referring to either. How long were those 'couple of times'?"  
"Your dad's a cop and your parents ran away together on your motorcycle...so I figure that's most of what the story is," Tim smirked, still on his own topic.  
"Or how loud were those times?" she continued, not taking the bait.  
"You asked me to run away with you," he added quietly. "Is that just a Sullivan woman thing?"  
She smiled into her coffee, "I never thought you'd _actually_ come with me. _And_ I was right."  
"Ask me again sometime. I've had years of Raylan for a bad influence."  
"He likes you," she smiled. "He was asking me about my intentions yesterday. It was cute."  
"And Paul only thanked me for not shooting you," he said, a little wistfully.  
She swatted his shoulder playfully, "You did shoot me!"  
"It was a graze! And _you_ gave me a concussion!"  
"We were fighting, if you hadn't been such a gentleman about it, you'd have been fine. Big baby!"  
"Hindsight is 20/20. Should have hit you and dragged you back my cave, old school."  
"Neanderthal. Thought you were supposed to hit me and drag me back to civilization."  
"Eventually," he finished his donut, smiling.  
She laid her head on his shoulder, "I still wanna know what happened that they call you that?"  
"You know why. Cough up the rest of the story, babe."  
She giggled, "That will not help me. And I asked first."  
"I wasn't there enough to meet Security. Does that tell you enough? Didn't know Q was there until yesterday. I served with him in Afghanistan."  
"You exchange the secret handshake?" she asked slyly.  
"No, we coin-checked. I owe him a beer."  
Clare rolled her eyes.  
***

Tony Kender was waking up around that time as well. Making his coffee, checking his voice- and e-mail, only to learn he had a message.

"I'm having a meeting I don't want to have today. You were sloppy enough letting Arlo Givens kill the good friend of our mutual acquaintance. I don't want to hear you've failed in other regards. I want this problem dealt with. Find someone for me."  
He looked at his phone. Well, he thought, spend every-day with criminals, it's like lying down with dogs… come back with fleas.

Raylan was passed out on the couch, presumably in preparation for talking to Duffy later, when Tim walked in the living room, while Clare went to dress. "How was last night?"  
"Uneventful on our side. Isobel was pretty ticked at Clare for going out today. They had it out a bit and then watched TV, making commentary like Mike and the bots," Rachel said softly. "How was New Orleans?"

Tim smiled, "Pretty."

"That all?"  
"What's Raylan said?"  
"That he's a shitty chaperone. Which is no surprise to me. She seems nice."

"For leaving me concussed in the woods, you mean?"

"You zoomed in on that girl as soon as her file was in front of you. I heard you talking to Art that day. You get her," Rachel said. "It's a good thing. I think she gets you, too."

"I was expecting her to be upset about the car bomb yesterday. She was just…"

"Just what? Her face said 'concern' to me."

"I guess I'm used to hearing about Winona give Raylan crap. That's not how she was. She wanted me to be the one to tell her I was all right, but I didn't have to explain that this was what I do," Tim looked into his mug. "I was all prepared for the explaining."

Rachel smiled. "I'm jealous. But it's pretty new. You may still have to explain someday. But her dad was a LEO, too, right?"  
"Yeah."

"And she's got brothers who've served?"

"Yes, Rachel, I get that she's familiar with the role. I just…"

"Wanted her to beg you to change and become an accountant so she didn't have to worry anymore? And you could feel like you're in some quasi-normal TV relationship?"

"Geez, Rach, speak your mind."

"She was a fugitive, she's now a protectee, and you have _stupidly_ decided to start a relationship with her now. Normal doesn't apply.

"If you subscribe to that 'you don't really know someone until they're on the edge of a volcano' thing. This is your woman, deal with it. If you subscribe to the 'you spend every day with someone, you get to know them,' thing, my advice is the same."

"I know, deal with it. And I will. I was just so grateful for it last night…"

"And now you're suspicious?"

"More wondering how long the good fortune will last," he finished his coffee and offered to take her cup in, "does make good coffee though."

"I know, right? Don't screw this up."

Wynn Duffy was not a morning person. He was not the sort to take being woken up well either, especially not by some dick-head Tramble guard that let Sam Porter get shanked by an old man, no matter how crazy the old man's son was. So, it was easy to say Wynn was not at his personal best when his bodyguard, Mike, came into say, "Kender's at the door. Seems pretty shaken up. You wanna talk to him?"

"No, Mike, I want to go back to being the sandwich filling between Maria Kirilenko and Tatania Golovin. Asshole. Send him in. I'll be out in a sec," he threw back his blankets and lamented ever taking Edgar Moss's phone call. He dressed slowly, even forgoing a tie, just to make Kender nervous. He pondered shaving and opted not to, he missed the 'stasche.

Coming out to talk to Kender finally, Wynn said enthusiastically, "Mr. Kender, to what do I owe the pleasure of you waking me up out of the best dream I've had this week? Is it an apology over your neglect of our friend Sam's safety?"

"Our mutual friend called me early this morning. About that Lidet woman coming back. He complained about what happened yesterday not working, too." Kender put his hands up to prevent Wynn from speaking as his expression changed, "Now, I don't know what happened yesterday. I just know he's asked me for names. People,"Kender took a shuddering breath. "What do you want me to do, Mr. Duffy?"

Wynn smiled, "Why, by all means, you give him those names. You do everything that man asks, Mr. Kender, and you tell me all about it. All of it. He's meeting with the Lidet woman today, where? Who's protecting her? What happened with the car yesterday? Get me details, Mr. Kender. That is the point of you."

Kender nodded, knowing better than to ask what would happen if he didn't get those details. He was a prison guard, he'd heard about Duffy for a long time, just not soon enough. "Understood. Sorry to wake you." He rose to leave.

"Did I say you could go yet? I still want to know what I asked you before. Why did Arlo Givens kill Sam?" Wynn demanded. "We work on a quid-pro-quo system here, Tony. You give me something, and I don't detail your face with a ball-peen hammer. I want these questions answered. You're falling off the ball here."

"I found out Givens' had a visit from his son that day, before he killed Sam. I haven't been able to see an footage of it though," Kender offered as a parting gift.

Wynn smiled, "See, now that's the point of you. Have a nice day, Mr. Kender."

After Kender had left, Wynn pulled Mike in and said, "Get someone to see if the Marshals are protecting Sullivan and Lidet. I want to know if I should expect a visit from Deputy Givens."

Press the button...Press the button...


	18. Chapter 18

Tim and Clare sat with Rachel until Ethan and Evan woke up and demanded more breakfast than just a doughnut each. Clare fixed them eggs, chatting about the Lego and anime concerns of 9-year-old boys today and Tim watched the domesticity. Rachel watched Tim watch. At least until he caught her and she had to go in another room to stop snickering or risk waking Raylan, who was snoring a lot quieter today. Tim went and sat with boys, and made the mistake of asking what a Bionicle was. Clare joined Rachel in her snickering after she finished scrambling the eggs.

While Tim was being schooled on modern Legos, Clare watched and wondered very bad thoughts. Rachel, having ovaries too, could read these bad thoughts. "How many you want?"  
"At least two. It was too hard after I lost my parents, I'd have died without my brothers. Must suck for only children," Clare said softly, in the hall.

"My nephew, Nick. I feel for him, but we talk about his mom a lot."

"That's good. Healthy. While my brothers were gone, I couldn't talk to my dad at all. He'd just cry. Or nod and leave and cry. I don't know who he talked about her with. It took him so long to do much of anything after she died."

Rachel decided she may subscribe to the 'you don't really know someone until they're on the edge of a volcano' thing, after all.

Raylan awoke to noise in the kitchen and laughing youngsters. Not his usual scene. Tim passed him coffee on his way in and said, "We even saved you a doughnut."

"Good man, Gutterson," he yawned. "What time is it?"  
"According to the clock on the microwave to your left, Raylan, it's 8:45," Tim drawled to the boys' snicker.

"I take back what I said about you being a good man."

"I ate your doughnut."

"What are you two bickering about now?" Rachel said, coming in from the hall, Clare behind her.

"Oh, they do the foreplay thing often?" Clare looked at Raylan with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, they're both awfully pretty," Rachel snickered, "and they spend a lot of time together."

"Good to know," Clare responded gravely.

"Well, we travel for a reason, it makes him terribly uncomfortable for us to be seen," Tim said regretfully.

"It's profoundly arrogant to think you'd be my type," Raylan said, mildly affronted.

Ethan and Evan, whether they understood the conversation or not, had continued their own conversation about their prospective activities for the day. "Clare, will you help us build a fort in the living room today?"

"A) Not today, no. I'm going out. And B) do ya'll have permission to build a fort in the living room? This is not your house, _b__ébé_."

"Where are you going?" The other twin asked.

"Out."

"I thought she was supposed to be stuck here like us! Protective custody or whatever!" They took turns whining at the Marshals.

"Clare is going to the office among other places," Tim said. "And she is under protective custody, same as you."

The boy on the left, Ethan, crossed his arms, "You're just going on a date, aren't you?"

"That's so lame," Evan said.

"Wait until you hit puberty," Tim smirked and Raylan nodded.

Clare shook her head at the whole display. "When are we getting out of here?"

Tim glanced at the clock, it was close enough to nine, he said, "Now, if you like."

The boys dutifully went to hug her before she could get a word out, "Can we do the fort tomorrow?"

"If you get permission."

Ethan turned to Rachel, "Can we?"

"By all means."

He turned back to Clare, she nodded, "Yes, we'll build a fort tomorrow. I'll even get some extra blankets today. All right?"

Shouts of, "Awesome," and, "Score," were interrupted by her saying,

"Tell your parents and Izzie, "I love them'. Ok?"

"Fine."

"Whatever." And the boys raced to the living room where the TV was turned on.

Laughing, Tim got up and said, "Good luck," before taking Clare by the hand leading her out, saying, "Blanket forts?"

"Blanket forts are awesome, Deputy."

Shopping was horribly uneventful. They'd held hands, his star and gun under the hem of his Henley as he'd escorted her around the shops. Clare bought a few outfits, promised Tim a lingerie show later, and spent far too much time looking at shoes. She settled on a couple of pairs of flats, a pair of running shoes and a pair of nude pumps Tim had admired her trying on. Most of the time was spent on her looking at a total of fourteen different motorcycle boots. None of which she purchased. She also didn't buy any of the "fuck-me" heels they both had looked at.

She also bought blankets. Tim didn't know what she'd do with five full-size, lightweight blankets, but he was sure he could come up with something that wasn't a blanket fort.

She'd decided to change into a dress and the heels before going to the office. Tim was loitering outside the dressing room, as he had been most of the day so far when he dropped his cup of coffee. "Does that mean I clean up nice, Deputy?"

She did look gorgeous. The high neck hid the scar, the pencil skirt fit just right, and those stupid pumps made her legs go on for a damn long time. She'd pulled her hair back into a twist and pinned it. "Alfred Hitchcock called, he wants to renegotiate your contract," he deadpanned.

She laughed and sat in his lap, "Not too much then?"

"Too much for who?" he kissed her. "I'm having 'Mad Men' fantasies here."

She nuzzled his face, "Later. I mean for meeting with Moss. Too much?"

He pulled back to think about it for a millisecond, "No, we'll go knock him on his ass."

She kissed him, far too heavily for the public place, and then just looked at him with that intent expression before taking his hand to lead him out.

"I love you, too," he whispered to the air.

Raylan sat in his Towncar after driving to Wynn's. He sighed, really not wanting to get out of his car. There were two goons sitting outside the Wynn-ebago. Two more in a car about two hundred feet away. Wynn was moving up in the world.  
He felt their eyes as he went to knock on the trailer's door. The customary Mike answered, "He doesn't want to talk to you."  
"I know. Don't care. Get him for me."  
Mike didn't move, "He's busy."  
"Tell him Raylan Givens is out here about Brian Sullivan and he better get un-busy."  
Mike pouted before closing the trailer door. A beat passed. Then two.  
Mike opened the door and gestured Raylan into the trailer. On cue, Wynn slunk out of the back door to his customary seat, "Why, Deputy Givens, what an unexpected pleasure. Just a warning, if this conversation goes like our last... Well. I have precautions set up. We'll put it like that."  
"I'll try to keep that in mind," Raylan sat across from him. "Brian Sullivan's car exploded yesterday."  
"That is unfortunate. I should send him a card."  
Raylan smiled, "You get this choked up over all your customers?"  
"Mr. Sullivan is no longer a customer of Duffy Security. But you knew that."  
"Like you knew he wasn't in his car when it blew up, huh?"  
"I heard about it on the radio."  
"Uh huh."  
"So, if that's all, Raylan, I should be getting back to my TV..."  
"It's not all. Colin Stark was murdered in Tramble yesterday. You've got people in there, don't you?"  
"I knew a guy named Sam Porter. Trustee, shanked the other day with a toothbrush of all things, by a guy, name of Arlo. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"  
"Should I?"  
"Because you're here for information. Why should I give you that information, Raylan? You haven't even said, 'please'?"  
Raylan's mouth worked, "Duffy, I'll ask you one more time, and I'll say it slowly so you can understand... Do you know why Colin Stark was killed the day his plea agreement went through?"

"I don't even know who Colin Stark is, Raylan. How could I know why he was killed?" Wynn asked reasonably.

"Excellent point. Here's a point of my own: If I find you involved in this, we're going back to our other conversation," and Raylan departed with that metaphorical shot.


	19. Chapter 19

"Clare, darling," Edgar Moss gushed walking into the boardroom.  
Tim was not disappointed. Edgar Moss seemed pretty milquetoast, sure, but the air, something about him screamed predator. He was about Tim's height, dark-haired, watery-eyed and soft. He wasn't quite the corporate Lecter Tim had pictured, but he seemed damn close. "Edgar, we're curious why you started your offers to buy out the Sullivan family started when Dr. Lidet was falsely accused?"  
"I'm sorry. Who're you?" Tim's skin crawled slightly when Moss had his glassy eyes on him. There was no soul behind them. He'd rather have a sit-down with Boyd Crowder. Crowder had weaknesses, like Ava, while Moss's were unknown, no matter how much paper Tim had on him. And currently, Tim was watching Moss approach Clare, his hackles rising.  
"This is Deputy Marshal Gutterson, Edgar. He's protecting me today," Clare said, offering her hand congenially. "How've things been?"  
Moss's eyes flicked, snakelike, between them, before he took her hand, watching Tim's face. "Rather well, dear. How is life, now you're no longer running?"  
"My feet appreciate it. Please, have a seat."  
Moss's eyes slipped to her feet, in their heels, and Tim's jaw clenched. "Mr. Moss-"  
"Yes, Deputy Marshal Gutterson, I do recall your question," Moss said grandly, sitting across from Tim. "I started moving then, Deputy -or should I call you Marshal?- Gutterson, because my competitor was vulnerable then. I have a, well, you could call it, a sense for that."  
"I can see that," Tim drawled.  
Jeez, Moss even smiled like a snake. "Yes, I imagine you would, Deputy. You were a sniper, yes? In the Army?"  
"With the Rangers. You got a file on me?"  
Moss's smile widened. "Naturally. After your office lost our Clare here, of course."  
Tim returned the smile, mirthlessly.  
Clare's eyes moved between them. Sensing her opening she leaned against the table, back to Tim, looking at Moss's face. "The Marshals Service would like to know about the timing of your sense, Mr. Moss. They find it curious that I could be so important..."  
"Is that why I'm here?" Moss seemed delighted now.  
Clare nodded, giving him her full attention, ignoring Tim, "Please explain it to him."  
"Yes, Mr. Moss, please explain it to me." Clare shot him a look, he shrugged.  
Moss watched them with interest, "Clare, as tiebreaker, was responsible for all decisions Graham and Brian could not agree upon. Thus, our fair doctor was responsible for much of their success. Why wouldn't I seize the opportunity to take advantage of the Sullivan's convenient, if tragic, misfortune?"  
Clare nodded, "Just good business."  
"The company isn't what it was though. That's what I wanted to discuss with you."  
"You want to buy me out? I only have eight and a third percent of my own, the rest is-"  
"Regardless, Clare, if you set the example..."  
"Of selling out the family business to its major competitor?"  
Moss shrugged.  
Tim cut in, "So, Dr. Lidet returning to her position, that would be inconvenient for you?"  
"Inconvenient, but not necessarily unwanted," Moss directed his snake gaze at Clare again, "It is lovely to have you back. We should have dinner."  
Clare returned his smile, "With or without my bodyguard?"  
"With. Why not?" Moss grinned. "Are you busy this evening? We can go to Sabio. We'll get my table."  
Clare looked at Tim, "Are we busy this evening?"  
"You have to check with him? My goodness, a life of crime has mellowed you."  
Clare's chuckle was more flirtatious than polite, in Tim's opinion.  
"I'll check with my chief, Mr. Moss," Tim said.  
"Ok, fine. Check in. I'll have the reservations for seven regardless," Moss said. "Is that all?"  
Tim nodded, still seated.  
"It's great to see you, love." Moss stood and kissed Clare's cheek, touching her arm, "Call about dinner, I'll see you later. Nice to meet you, Deputy Marshal Gutterson."  
"You too, Mr. Moss," Tim smiled.  
Moss started out the door then turned, "It's quite refreshing how you don't hold Clare losing you in the wood's against her. It was you, wasn't it?"  
"It was," Tim affirmed, lacing his fingers behind his head. "You have a great afternoon, Mr. Moss."  
"Be careful, Clare," Moss warned before he left.  
Tim watched the door for a moment, "Did he just warn you to be careful of me?"  
"Seemed that way," she nodded, walking toward him, positioning herself against the table in front of him.  
Tim slid her directly in front of him, "You were flirting with him."  
"Yes," she nodded, "That's sort of how Moss and I relate."  
"You were flirting with a sociopath. In front of me."  
"Is this you being jealous? Because I'm kind of expecting you to lean me over this table and screw my brains out," she said conversationally.  
"I am thinking of doing that, yes."  
"I think we should lock that door first then."  
"Clare, if you do anything that reckless again...I am going to hit you and drag you back to my cave," Tim said, holding her hips as he stood.  
"Door. Locked."  
"You protectee. Me marshal. Rules."  
Clare leaned her forehead against his chest, "Stupid rules."  
"I know."  
She looked up at him, "I want you."  
"Do you have to make this harder? I'm trying to be good here."  
"Then we shouldn't be alone together," Clare said, leaning into his lips.  
Tim agreed, sliding her onto the table, pushing her skirt up. He kissed her neck, feeling her legs wrap around him.  
Clare's hands were inside his shirt, moving to his belt. She moaned as his mouth moved on her throat, unbuttoning his jeans and slipping her hand in. He bucked against her, groaning her name.  
The brief knock on the door was enough time for Clare to free her hand and Tim to pull away, but Q still got a pretty good visual before he shut the door back up.  
"See. Rules exist for a reason," he muttered against her lips.  
She laughed, pulling her skirt down. "Not quite your 'Mad Men' fantasy?"  
"Pretty close. Come in, Q."  
Q opened the door slowly, his face curiously free from expression. "Um, I got those lists you asked for;" he passed them to Tim, nodding to Clare, "Welcome back, doc."  
"Thanks."  
Tim was distracted by the lists. "Are these recent?"  
"As of this morning."  
"I gotta call Art. Where's a fax machine?"  
Clare pointed and slid back to sit on the table again, "So, how's things, Q?"  
***

Rachel had caught a nap with Raylan keeping watch early the previous night, so she was still alert when she drove the Sullivan's back home, meeting Art at their door. "Art," she nodded to him.  
"Any trouble?" Off the shake of her head Art continued, "The house is clear. I'll keep Marshals here. Two at the front door, the back and inside."  
Brian nodded, watching the kids precede him into the house, and shaking Art's hand, "Thank you."  
"What about Clare?" Gretchen asked. "You only have so many people, Chief Mullen. We have space for her, if that'll help."  
Brian looked at his wife, "Sweetie, Clare's got a price on her head. We don't even know if what happened with my car is connected."  
"She's your niece, Brian," she admonished, to Art and Rachel's amusement, "she's always welcome. Besides, really? What are the odds someone's going to blow up your car the same week Clare comes home?" She included the marshals in her question, "Well?"  
Art suppressed a smile, "True, Mrs. Sullivan, but we are still investigating. As it stands, we'd like to keep you family in the home. Deputy Brooks will drop off the kids' homework before her shift is over. Deputy Nelson is inside; he'll be heading up your security tonight, if you'll follow me." Art shot Rachel a look as he led the Sullivan's in. Rachel was smirking on her way back to her car. Not her problem anymore.

***  
Art approved the dinner with Moss, Tim would wear a wire to dinner and Clare would do what she was told. The new list of plates would be compared with what Tim recorded from the tapes the previous night.  
But there was a glaring omission. Graham Sullivan's car.  
***

Tim kept eagle eyes on Clare the rest of the afternoon at the office. She'd been camped out in Graham's office while he'd explained things like Profit and Loss statements and depreciation and all sorts of terminology Tim tuned out to watch and see if Graham Sullivan could have tried to frame his niece and kill his brother.

Graham wasn't terribly Lecter-ish, like Moss. But he was attentive. Tim had noticed it here years ago, when Graham had been the one to smirk at Tim and say Tim had a bit of a crush and how it was too bad Clare was just like Maggie. Tim had figured it was more to screw with him, implying they both were attractive to lawmen. The whole reason Tim had kept his distance from Clare in his office had been her uncles. If they thought they could play Tim's attraction to Clare, they were in for a rude awakening. Something he knew he should keep in mind for Moss later.


	20. Chapter 20

Being the oldest Graham Sullivan knew he was supposed to be protective, knew he was supposed to follow in his father's footsteps, and knew his duty as the oldest son was to tow the family line. Knowing what he was supposed to do, never actually made him want to do it, though. At fifty-whatever, Graham had no idea what he wanted to do, except never see the Godforsaken state of Kentucky again.

After thirty years of doing what he was supposed to do, and doing it well, he felt entitled to get the hell out of dodge. But then his father decided, after toying with the idea of not retiring in every conversation for the previous five years, to retire. "I'm leaving my life's work in your hands, Graham. Don't screw it up," he'd added supportively, chuckling over his cigar. Like Graham hadn't spent the last thirty years not screwing it up.

And then there was Clare. The youngest of his misfit sister's children with the backwoods, Cajun cop. She gets invited in and welcomed like the prodigal, while Brian keeps neglecting the office to go to soccer games and spelling bees. Graham's father never tells Brian not to screw it up after he passes on a business trip to catch Isobel's riding tournament. Never tells Clare that she doesn't know a damn thing about securities, while Graham had specialized in corporate law.

Thirty years of doing his duty, only to be equal to a half-Cajun med student, who'd had to graduate from a military school, and his 'family-man' brother.

Graham glanced across the room at the deputy…Gutterson. Same one as when Clare opted to run before. He reminded Graham of something, like owls in the woods when he'd been a Boy Scout, those eyes that follow you. Reading your darkest thoughts, seeing through you. The marshal's eyes would flit to Clare, like he was in love with her. Oh, well, Maggie's stock never did live up to its potential. Graham thought Clare would end up much better with Moss, although getting to know her, he realized that Clare didn't know what was good for her any better than her mother.

He explained what he could as calmly as he could without throttling her. Clare had a decent brain for business, better than most of her brothers, anyhow, but she was never satisfied with his conclusions, choosing to waste time finding her own. By five thirty, he'd had enough. "Sweetie, I should be getting home to Lou-Anne. Are you about done?"

"Sure," she nodded, pulling her head out of the printouts. "Tim?"  
"If you could let me or someone in Security check your car, before you go home—"

"I've arranged it with Mr. Quinton, Deputy. Clare, darling," he pecked her cheek as she rose. Then offered his hand to the deputy, "Deputy Gutterson."

He shook it with a blank expression, trying to protect Clare, Graham supposed. People could be so sentimental.


	21. Chapter 21

Clare wore a different dress to dinner. Tight, black and lacy, showing the scar on her chest unashamedly, while Tim was forced into a slim, blue suit with his wire. Clare straightened his tie in the front of the restaurant, with Tim muttering, "I can't even afford a drink in here."  
"Hush. Moss's tab. Now, don't fidget," she pulled him toward the back of the place.  
"Clare! Marshal!" Edgar Moss said, recovering from his start at seeing them, or Tim surmised, his start at seeing Clare's scar, and gestured at a waiter. "Champagne to toast the prodigal daughter?"  
"Club soda," Tim said.  
"Right. You're working," he sounded sort of puzzled by that. "Two glasses, Nick."  
The waiter brought a bottle and two glasses, along with Tim's club soda. After popping and pouring it himself, Moss raised his glass, "To your freedom, Clare. Welcome back."  
"To Clare," Tim echoed.  
"To the truth coming out," Clare raised her glass.  
Tim mentally face-palmed, but he echoed her too, "To the truth coming out."  
"To the truth," Moss said, passing the menus himself. "The sea bass is wonderful this week but the rib eye is a solid choice."  
Tim eyed Clare, who was stifling a giggle at Raylan in the van, listening.

Moss tried to flirt with Clare eyeing Tim each time, as he'd lean over to her. Tim didn't rise to the bait and stab Moss with a fork, but Clare didn't flirt back noticeably, either. Which was a little concerning.

Concerning enough for Tim to pull her aside as Moss was picking out a dessert wine. "You're not flirting with him?"  
"It bothered you. I stopped."

"But now he knows it bothers me. And now he knows you care it bothers me."

Clare followed his logic with ease if not willingness, "You want me to flirt with him now? Because, believe it or not... not flirting with Moss isn't a terrible loss to me. I don't mind not doing it."

"Then why did you start?"

"I was bored. It pissed Brian off," she shrugged nonchalantly, taking a bite of broccoli.

Tim blinked, "You took up flirting with a sociopath because you were bored?"

"It's not like I took up dating them! Jeez, Gutterson."

He scowled.

"Do you want me to flirt with him when he gets back? Or not?"

"At this point you would just to screw with me, though, right?"

"It does seem likely," she agreed.

Moss came back, effusively kissing Clare on the cheek and squeezing Tim's shoulder, "Trouble in paradise, kids?"

Tim didn't glare as best he could.

Clare merely smiled sweetly, "What's for dessert?"

"I decided on a lovely Montrachet with fruit compote, dear." Moss turned to Tim, "You can have dessert, Marshal?" he verified.

Tim nodded. "Dessert is fine."

Moss smiled his snake smile and gestured to the waiter to take their dinner plates, "Coffee, too, for the Marshal."

Tim leaned back as Clare took point, "About your buyout offer, Edgar?"

"I thought you wouldn't even consider it, darling?"

Tim's jaw clenched, Clare kicked him under the table.

"I did say that. I'm just wondering who else you may have made it to?" she said through her lashes.

"You're uncles, of course. Brian shut me down right off the bat. Graham was kind enough to let me finish my sentence. I thought about making it to your brothers, but only Daniel returned my call and responded for everyone."

"Told you to go to hell, huh?" Tim smiled.

"In so many words," Moss agreed.

"But Graham let you finish the sentence. Finish your offer? Then what did he say?" Tim pushed.

Moss smiled, "Is that what you're after, Marshal? Is Graham Sullivan on a list of suspects?"

Clare watched Tim's face, her stomach turning. Then she swallowed and said, "Everyone's on their list, Edgar. I don't even think I'm completely off of it. Deputy Gutterson asked you a question."

Moss sat back and cocked his head at Clare, "Graham said I was low-balling him, then he told me to leave."

"But he thought about it enough to know you were low-balling him?" Tim asked.

"When was this?" Clare asked quietly.

"A day or two after you'd been arrested, dear."

Clare sipped her wine, "Thank you, Edgar."

Tim and Edgar exchanged a glance, watching Clare for reaction.

She buried it as well Tim did, but she suspected Graham, and was surprised to find herself more hurt by Tim keeping his suspicions from her than by the suspicions themselves.

Rachel had picked up the work and textbooks from the elementary and high schools, and was on her way back to the house when she first spotted the black Camry trolling the road.  
She called the tags in as she pulled in the driveway and didn't give it another thought until she was passing Izzie her Geometry book, when she saw the sedan circle again. Alerting Art and Deputy Nelson, she went outside.  
The same Camry was approaching from the opposite direction as Rachel reached her car. Then they opened fire.  
She rolled out of the line of fire and pulled. The front of the house exploded in a shower of glass and splintered siding. After the car had passed Rachel got in to follow as she saw Art and Nelson run out, guns drawn.  
Calling in the pursuit, Rachel gunned the engine, the involuntary thought of, "What would Raylan do?" flashed through her mind. Of course, Raylan would probably have chased the car on foot, shooting at it, so Rachel figured she was ahead as she shifted around a sharp left.

Rachel kept up with them as they sped towards the campus. Two LPD cars and a KSP trooper joined her as they merged towards the interstate, the chase turning heads of backpacked pedestrians, as they flew westward. Flying being the operative word, as they careened off the on-ramp to avoid the waiting patrol cars. The Camry rumbled over the embankment and into a gas station parking lot. Where they were lost with squealing tires.


	22. Chapter 22

I'd first like to extend sympathies and prayers to the family of Chris Kyle, as well as all to the families of all our lost heroes. God bless.

Clare and Tim returned from dinner to hear about the shootout. He gripped her hand, saying, "They at the safe house?"  
"For the time being. Everyone's fine, Rachel chased the perps through to the campus, but they lost them. Plates came up Baxter-Hawley Construction."  
"Duffy."  
"Who is this Duffy?" Clare cut in. "What do you need on him to end this?"  
Tim took a deep breath, pulling her with him to the couch in Art's office, "Duffy isn't the issue. He's the middleman. Connecting the contractors with either Moss or-"  
"Or whoever's responsible. We're pressuring the feeb's for the source but…" Art finished lamely.  
"I'm familiar with the Bureau's routine on inter-agency cooperation," she said tiredly, resting her head on Tim's shoulder, letting Art see the beginnings of her scar through her light coat.  
Art had heard about it when Tim had returned from Daniel Boone, but her tee the previous day had hidden it. It was long and slim, only slightly puckered around her neck, from where her head kept turning while it was healing, he supposed.  
She was marked. She had been and would continue to be reminded of this every time she looked in a mirror. She'd never be away from it. It was sad, Art thought, watching them. He had no idea how the pair would function without someone breathing down her neck, but Tim had had a torch burning for a damn long time. Art didn't know how he'd handle having what he wanted.

Clare didn't say another word while Art was in the room, so Art left them in his office while he went to talk to Captain Choate of the KSP.

"How long have you suspected Graham of doing this?" she asked as soon as Art was out of earshot.

"A bit," Tim confirmed.

She nodded, head still on his shoulder, "And you didn't think to tell me?"  
Tim took a deep breath, "There didn't seem to be a reason without evidence, Clare. It pointed at Brian as much as at Graham until his car."

"At least until Graham arranges an attempt on his own place," she shot back, sitting up to look at him, "It's awfully sloppy for him to be the only one no one's tried to kill."

"Clare—"

"No. Why is he trying to kill his brother? Why put a price on me? I was gone! Why not just sell out? And do we have any evidence that he framed me three years ago?"

"Clare," Tim kissed her silent this time, not caring who was looking through the blinds into Art's office. "We don't know. But this all started three years ago. What happened then?"

She took a shuddering breath, on the point of tears, "Nothing notable. At least that I can remember. I know Gramps had just withdrawn from his seat as an advisor, but that shouldn't have sent Graham into a tailspin. Everything had been planned about it for years."

"We need to talk to your grandparents, don't we?"

"They're not terribly fond of me, probably like you even less," she warned.

"They're going to have to get used to it," he said, kissing her. "Does it have anything to do with the story you won't tell me?"  
"Everything. And it's not actually a story, just a little addendum, a little sentence of prologue."

"That you won't tell me? Even to explain why they've been calling me an in-law for three years?"

Clare pursed her lips, "So, my parent's ran away together, right? And eloped. So, no one ever says how they met, do they?"

"Not that I've heard."

She grinned, too wide to get the words out, "My dad was a beat cop. And my mother was eighteen and down for Mardi Gras…"

"Oh, Lord…"

"Yeah."

"That's why?"

"Yup."

"Your parents met when your dad arrested your mom? That's, uh…"

"I told you your knowing wouldn't help me."

He kissed her, pulling her into his lap, one hand tangled in her hair, the other working its way to the end of her skirt. She responded, giggling, her hands inside his blazer, whispering breathlessly, "Don't you wish you'd run away with me now?"

"Ah, babe, I always wished that," he said to her lips.

"I-" Clare desperately wanted to say it, wanted him to know. She was terrified of moving too fast, though. So, she hadn't said it, but surely, after he said something like that, it wasn't too fast. Was it?

"Ahem," Art interrupted, standing next to a deeply amused David Vasquez, "the AUSA brought over some tapes from the feeb's. Thought you might want to have a listen?"

Clare rose, after another quick kiss, "Counselor."

"Doctor."

Tim watched her walk out, "You're killin' me, Art. This better be good."

"She's a protectee, Marshal. You were making out with a protectee," Vasquez said, his eyes following Clare out.

Art just shook his head.

Vasquez had come bearing Wynn Duffy's phone records, redacted by Barkley's people, of course. It was only one of Duffy's phones, Raylan pointed out. But the list had both Moss's and Graham Sullivan's name on it. Which was enough for Vasquez to call about recordings, even at the late hour.  
After hearing they wouldn't get any until the next day, Art authorized Raylan and Tim to take Clare back to the safe house. At the house, Tim made no move to leave, instead picking Raylan's brain about dealing with Duffy.  
"I'm hardly an expert at that prick."  
"But you did get him to pull off the contract on Winona that Gary had."  
"That was different..."  
"Raylan, what would you do if this was your girl? Help me out here."  
Raylan sighed, "Alright. He said said he didn't know anything and asked me about the trustee that Arlo killed."  
"It's always about Harlan. Isn't it?"  
"Not today. Yeah, Duffy knows something, now we have evidence of it. We'll go back tomorrow and beat it out of him. Ok?"  
Tim looked at him, "We've talked about you dragging guys around their nut-sacs before."  
"Your girl."  
"Fair point."  
"So, Duffy's tomorrow morning?"  
"I want to wake the bastard up," Tim said.


	23. Chapter 23

Clare sat with Gretchen and the twins, reading Treasure Island, complete with pirate voices. Tim and Raylan watched them before Raylan smiled at Tim and walked back to where Brian was helping Izzie with her homework.  
Clare saw Tim watching and tried to gesture him to come in. He shook his head, leaning against the door. When they were done, and Gretchen was tucking the boys in, Clare kissed the boys and Evan asked, "You're not going on a date again tomorrow are you?"  
"Nope. We're doing blanket forts, 'member?"  
"I got my own plans tomorrow, kiddo," Tim said, slipping his hands around Clare's waist. "She's all yours."  
"Uh huh."  
"Good night, babies," Gretchen kissed her boys as Tim and Clare waved their goodnights.  
"I thought you'd be out of here by now."  
"Nobody's kicked me out yet."  
"I thought we discussed the whole not being alone thing before," she said to his lips.  
"And that was before the AUSA caught you making out earlier," Raylan cut in.  
Tim smirked, "You really enjoy not being the one in trouble, huh?"  
"I do."  
"We'll be good," Clare said, holding Tim's eyes, "Won't we?"  
"Fine," he muttered like a teenager.  
"Raylan, you're not going to kick him out, are you?" Clare pouted, leaning her head against Tim's chest.  
Raylan shook his head at her, "No. He can stay, for now."  
Tim narrowed his eyes. "Thank you, Raylan. Gracious of you."  
"I know," Raylan nodded.  
"Boys, separate corners," Gretchen quipped, coming out of the boy's room.  
Clare pinched her lips together, pulling Tim towards the living room, "It's not funny."  
"I know, honey," Clare said, still pulling, "Not at all."  
Izzie caught them in the living room, "I better not get a lousy dress for the wedding," she snarked, plopping down next to them on the couch.  
"Presumptuous," Clare said.  
"Haven't even picked out the diamond yet," Tim added to gaping stares.

After the Sullivans had gone to bed and Raylan had resumed snoring in the easy chair, Clare whispered to Tim, "Do you really think Graham could have done this?"  
He looked at her, not wanting to answer.  
"You can answer honestly."  
"Yeah, I do."  
"Oh. A little more honest than I was expecting. Ok," she said. "Ok. Why? Because he... Wants to sell out. Because he can't with Brian there? It makes no sense. What does Graham get out of it? He could sell out at anytime... Oh."  
"Oh?"  
"Gramps and Gran. Graham would never sell out and risk disappointing them. Everything he does is for them. Shit." Clare got up and paced, "When I was six, they gave me a pony. Mom had a fit. Dad thought it was hilarious, but Mom was all over it. And she blamed Graham, said he knew what she thought of it and she knew what he was up to. Trying to worm their way into the house."  
"What was he up to? Just trying to get into the house? The corrupting influence of money?"  
"More a 'spoiling the child to manipulate or punish the parents' thing."  
"Ok, if Graham is motivated by doing right by the family business-"  
"And controlling everyone around him."  
"Then why frame you? His sister's kid, stepping up to the family business. Or kill Brian, who'd been running the business with him."  
"Except Brian didn't run it with him. Graham always used to complain that Brian would take time off the business for his kids. Never in front of him or their parents but he'd make snide comments behind his back."  
"So, Brian didn't deserve his third, and you don't desrve yours because-"  
"My mother rejected it when I was young," Clare finished. "My uncle's trying to kill me."  
"Could still be working with Moss, too," Tim nodded.  
"So, what do we do now? Try to get him to call off the contracts? Beat him with a shovel? Prosecute?"  
"Sleep."  
"I just found out my mother's brother framed me and put a price on my head," Clare said. "I'm a little wired."  
He pulled her close, "Just, don't do anything until tomorrow when Raylan and I get back. Ok?"  
"I promise. Blanket forts, remember? It's very serious."  
"Yeah. I was never one for the blanket forts."  
"You were never told by your mother that you had to pick inside or outide while you were playing to save the air conditioning," she slipped her arms around his shoulders, straddling him.  
"True. She never said that. Lots of things. Not about the ac," he kissed Clare, sliding his hands up her skirt. "You know you're too loud to anything."  
"I know that bothers you terribly," Clare started kissing his throat.  
"Raylan is right there."  
"You can teach him something," she murmured, unbuttoning his shirt.  
"That's not really how our relationship works, baby," he croaked out as Clare found his collarbone with her tongue. She smiled against his neck, moving her hands down his chest. "Raylan is right there," he whispered, pulling her hands away.  
Clare took to sucking along his other collarbone.  
"Jeez, babe," he rolled her onto her back, her wrists above her head.  
She buried her head in his shoulder, trying not to giggle. And then Tim was trying not to laugh.  
"If you two are done with the horseplay, I was trying to sleep," Raylan said, with his eyes closed.  
Clare smiled up at Tim, "Are we done?"  
"No," he shook his head, kissing her, "Never." He pulled her up with him, "We'll be in the kitchen. Go back to sleep, Raylan."  
"Y'know, if you'd just let me..." Clare whispered, slipping her hands around his waist and nibbling his ear.  
He set her up on the table, pulling her legs so he could stand between them, and said to her lips, "You are a terrible influence." His hands resumed their way under her skirt and she peeled his shirt back, pushing up his beater until he had to take his hands off her to pull them both off. Tim pulled and pushed her dress until she unzipped it and pulled it over her head. "I really don't think this is a good idea," he pointed out, unstrapping her bra with a deft hand.  
She started working his belt, "It's a terrible idea." He moved back, and she shifted her weight to her hands so he could tug her panties off. "Condom?"  
"Pocket."  
She had it open in her hand when he returned between her knees and she dipped, pulling his erection free and wrapping her mouth around him.  
He bucked before he could help himself, then grasped a handful of her hair. "Clare!"  
His scandalized tone made her chortle, and whispered, "Like sitting on a kitchen table naked is so much better?"  
He grabbed the condom from her, "That's not it." He wasn't sure what it was that was scandalizing him but Raylan being in the next room and Nelson being in a car outside probably contributed to it, to say nothing of her family upstairs.  
"What is it then?" Clare kicked her naked legs like a child. "I've never really been one for blow-jobs either, but I do want you... in every way possible."  
Tim kissed her, fucking her mouth with his tongue. She pulled him to her, hands on his butt. He pulled her hands away, pinning them on either side of her. When he was sure she was breathless, he pulled back, "I love you. I want to make love to you. I do not want head with my partner in the next room."

Clare was breathless. And aching to have him in her. And amazed that he would say ANY of that. She freed her hands to lace them in his hair. "You said, 'You love me'," she whispered with a silly grin.  
"I do love you."  
"I have been in love with you since the first time you tried to arrest me, Tim Gutterson," Clare said. "No one in the next room is gonna change how much I want you. I belong to you. I know it in my bones. I don't care where we are. I just need you."  
She watched him swallow, scared she'd said too much. "Whatever you want." She touched his face, memorizing every line and curve. "Make love to me, baby. Make love to me. Tim," she pressed soft kisses on his mouth and face, "make love to me."  
He lay her back on the table, his hands ghosting over her. His head dropped and he tasted her nipple, tongue swirling, as his eyes went to her face.

She whimpered softly, smile playing at her lips as she watched him watching her. She moved her mouth back to his neck, tasting his sweat and muscle as her fingertips traced the dips and rises of his abdomen. "I love you," she whispered as his fingers trailed down to her mound, "Know that I love you." He palmed the condom and she stopped him, "I want every part of you in me, Tim. Every part."  
He pulled back to look in her eyes, "What happens to your residency if we have a baby from unprotected sex?"  
"Then I have your baby."  
He blinked. "I lied when I said I didn't know what diamond to get you."  
Clare smiled, "And I'll say yes. Now, make love to me, Tim." She slid closer, wrapping her legs around his waist, pivoting her pelvis so her wet clit brushed over his swollen head. "Be inside me, babe. Make love to me."

He watched her move against him before sinking into her...slowly. Her back arched to take his length as she ground into him, keeping her eyes on his and her arms around his shoulders. Pulling out, he felt her muscles, both inside and out, holding him to her. Thrusting into her again, he pulled her legs apart to allow him deeper and felt her nails dig into his back.  
Going crazy moving this slow, Tim changed momentum, owning her with each stroke until he came, condom still on the table, inside her. She bucked against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders whispering, "I love you," over and over again, before she had to bite her lip to keep quiet as she climaxed.  
"You're mine. Every part of you," he murmured to her, keeping eye contact when they broke.  
"Long as you know that's mutual, bebe," she said with no real volume. "I do love you."  
"I love you, too, Clare."

They dressed each other with deep glances and feather light touches, keeping their kisses soft. Tenderly zipping her dress, Tim ran the tip of his tongue up her scar. "Promise me you'll be careful tomorrow."  
His eyes flicked upwards, "Tomorrow?"  
"Whatever you and Raylan are planning... Promise me," she responded, her hands smoothing his undershirt.  
"I promise I will be careful. And I will come back to you," Tim narrowed his eyes, "Another bad feeling?"  
"No, just want you to be aware that I can kill people as well as you can with completely different paperwork and if you don't want me to meet your criminals, you better not let them hurt you," Clare responded in all seriousness.  
"You have no idea how insanely in love I am at this moment, so I'll just say, 'Yes, I'll be careful,' ok?"  
She shook her head at him, "I'm tired, Gutterson. Find me a bed."  
"How about we share the couch?"  
"With Raylan in the easy chair? I guess. It'd be real awkward if you woke up with Izzie and me."  
"She's a bit young for me anyways."

Raylan opened one eye after he thought Tim and Clare had been on the couch under one of her blankets long enough to be asleep. Tim wasn't.  
"Tell me you didn't just fuck her in the kitchen."  
"I didn't just fuck her in the kitchen," Tim responded dutifully, drawing circles on Clare's back with his fingers.


	24. Chapter 24

H/t to WhoKnowsWhy for the story Recompense, which I borrowed from liberally…

He had her pinned under him. She was spitting dirt and leaves from her mouth as she wriggled beneath him. Her elbow caught him and he pulled back, just enough for her to reach and pull herself from underneath him. He caught her by her jean's waistband and yanked her back under him. He straddled her, spinning her so she faced him. "I love this shit."  
"You chose this career."  
"Yeah, this shit makes me hard."  
"You sure wanna say that on top of me, Deputy?"  
He stared down at her, both breathless and wired. "Yeah, I am," he took her mouth while his hands ripped his jacket and shirt off, moving to his jeans without ceremony.  
It had taken her barely a breath to follow suit undressing herself and pressing her naked chest to his. Peeling her jeans off, he slid his hands to tear off her panties, feeling her wet heat under his fingers then his cock. He thrust into her over and over again.  
But this wasn't how it happened. And that nasty, annoying part of his brain that kept reminding him would not let him rewrite history.

Tim woke up with Clare's hot mouth on him, the head of his penis deep in her throat as she swallowed him.  
"Babe, I'm gonna come. Clare-"  
Her mouth kept working, eyes smug and intent, hands deftly working his shaft and ball sac. He tried to pull her off by her hair but her tongue picked that moment to draw a line down the back of his dick, his hips moved involuntarily.  
"Clare," he whispered, "Cla-"  
He couldn't hold it. His cum was swallowed quickly as Clare continued her ministrations. She licked up and down his cock, cleaning him, before pulling a Kleenex from the coffee table to dry him. She looked into his eyes, a defiant sex goddess with wet, swollen lips and his cum on her breath.  
"You are the sexiest thing I've ever seen."  
"I know," she smirked, putting him back into his boxers, and zipping and buttoning his pants. "How cheap was that with your partner in the next room?"  
"That was amazing," he responded honestly. His hand was still tangled in her hair and he used it to pull her up to him.  
"You don't want to kiss me yet," she reached for a glass of water on the table, drinking half of it while Tim still marveled. After kissing him slowly and methodically, she pulled back and said, "Not that I don't like waking up to your hard-ons..."  
He smiled a shy smile, "I was rewriting the woods."  
"Was I any good?"  
"I have a deep affection for you on your back."  
"That's because you're not terribly creative,"  
"Might be true. You might have to show me what I'm missing," he said to her lips.  
"If you two are done fooling around..." Raylan said from the kitchen door.  
"If you saw anything I'll carve out your eyes with a grapefruit spoon," Tim said without turning.  
"If I saw anything I'd carve out my eyes with a grapefruit spoon," Raylan shot back.

The twins were up before the rest of the Sullivan's again. Clare cooked while the boy's inventoried blankets and anything heavy enough to hold the blankets on the bookshelves and tabletops. Tim and Raylan were assigned the task of rearranging furniture to Ethan and Evan's specifications.  
Rachel didn't arrive until after nine and Tim gave Clare a lingering kiss that got the twins gagging before he left with Raylan. Raylan merely tipped his hat to Clare and shot Rachel a look. Rachel ignored him.  
In the car, safely driving on the interstate towards Frankfurt, Raylan opened his mouth, "So, she woke you up with a blow job, huh? That's hot."  
"This is me pretending you didn't say that because you're driving... And, yeah, it was."  
Duffy's motor coach was as protected as the last time Raylan visited. Mike came to the door again and, seeing both of them, went to get Duffy without a word.  
Tim, however, wasn't waiting for anything and followed Mike in.  
Raylan trailed after him, keeping a foot on the door to keep anyone else from following them in.  
Duffy, for his part, had come out of his back room without a raised eyebrow...or pants, "Why, good morning, Marshals. What can I do for you this fine day?"  
"You wanna finish getting dressed for us, Wynn?" Raylan asked.  
"Please," Tim drawled dryly.  
"If you insist, gentlemen," Wynn disappeared into the back room briefly as Mike eyed Tim and Raylan nervously. Mike wasn't sure if he should be more cautious of the know quantity of Raylan or the unknown quantity of Tim. Mike had survived with Duffy for all these years for a reason. Coming back out, Wynn spread his arms welcomingly, "Alrighty then, gents! What are we doing today?"  
Tim smiled, "What were you and Graham Sullivan discussing three days ago before Colin Stark was killed?"  
"Why, I don't recall, Deputy Gutterson. Three days is a long time."  
Tim hit him. Duffy stumbled into a chair, clutching his jaw. "Wrong answer, Wynn." He swung at him again, knocking Wynn off the chair.  
Raylan said to Mike, "This doesn't involve you and me, Mike. Don't make it."  
Mike eyed him, hand on his piece.  
"You pull, I pull and then this gets messy."  
"Do I need to repeat myself, Wynn?" Tim hauled him back into the chair.  
"You're just gonna beat on me? In front of your partner?" Wynn's gaze went between Raylan and Tim.  
Tim smirked, "Bet you thought that was just his job, huh?"  
Wynn's eyes went between the two Marshals, "All this for Brian Sullivan?"  
"Who is asking the questions here, ya think, Duffy?" Tim sneered, leaning over him.  
"Raylan!" Duffy looked to him.  
"What makes you think I'm not gonna back his play?" Raylan asked.  
Tim stepped towards Wynn again, Wynn put his hands up, "He wanted a few names. Just names. That's all."  
"Like the names of whoever you loaned your car to shoot up Brian Sullivan's place?" Tim pressed.  
"A shooting?"  
"Don't play with me, Duffy. I don't play," Tim warned.  
"I gave him the names, is all. Ok? This is all a Sullivan family deal. I don't involve myself in family businesses."  
"Tell that to Theo Tonin," Raylan quipped.  
"What names?"  
Wynn weighed his options, "Tony Kender, guard at Tramble. You wouldn't think they'd be friends, Graham's taken a bit of a shine Tony and his interests. A financial shine."  
"As in Graham pays Tony's debts to you and now he holds the marker," Tim finished with a glance at Raylan.  
"That's a wonderfully linear way of seeing it," Raylan said on the way out.  
"It's a little more linear if you know Graham's bitter about sharing the company he's slaved for for thirty years with his deadbeat brother and the kids of his dead sister who rejected the family business."  
"Is this how Art feels when I wait to tell him things in the office?" Raylan asked absently, getting in the car. Tim was already on the phone about Tony Kender, too focused to respond.  
Reaching the office Raylan and Tim were pulled into Art's office, "DOC is damn curious why we're pulling files on one of their guards. So am I."  
"Kender was the name we got from Duffy this morning. Graham paid his debt to Duffy and is holding the marker. Graham's call to Duffy was asking for names," Tim sped through his speech, bringing Art up to speed.  
"So, our Tramble guard is hooking Graham Sullivan up his hired guns? Duffy say anything about Moss?"  
Tim and Raylan didn't look at each other.  
"Or did we not remember to ask about Moss the way I'm not remembering to ask about Tim's knuckles?"  
"It does seem very similiar," Raylan offered.  
"As it stands it's reason to talk to Graham Sullivan again." me  
"It's reason for Raylan and Rachel to talk to talk to Kender. You're a little wired and will go relax with your girl and her family. I trust nine-year-old boys are a more effective cockblock than Raylan's hat," Art's tone should have brooked no argument.  
"Now, you're assigning me to Clare? Because Wynn Duffy required... special handling?"  
Art tamped down a smile, "You questioning my orders?"  
"No, sir," Tim said, looking at Raylan.


	25. Chapter 25

"Just remember he's trying kill kids," Tim reminded Raylan for the third time in a very short drive.  
"Y'know, I remember when you bitched about my lawman ways? But when you want it on your girl's behalf..."  
"And her family's," he added indignantly. "Art doesn't want me there, and one of you is enough for any office. Just... Ride him a little rough. I shoot people on your say-so all the time. You say 'apricot' and I fire. I'm just asking you to ride this crooked guard as hard as the last one."  
"The last one I hit with a car twice."  
"And I thought it was very resourceful of you, since Art didn't want you to shoot anybody."  
Raylan parked the Town car glaring at Tim. "The last time you used that tone of voice we were talking about Duffy's memory. You recall he remembered your name from that occasion?"  
"I thought it was sweet of him."  
Raylan continued glaring as he followed Tim into the safe house.  
Rachel let them in with her finger to her lips and gestured them to follow her into the kitchen where Brian seemed to be helping his daughter with her homework. "They have been at this for hours," Brian said tiredly. "I get how the boys do it. I don't know how Clare does it."  
Rachel and Izzie snickered, Izzie saying, "Have ya'll been in the living room yet?"  
"Blanket forts?"  
"Clare takes them very seriously," Rachel cautioned with another snicker.  
Raylan trailed after Tim into the living room. The living room that had been transformed. One blanket stretched from the top of the bookcase down to an end table and the back of the sofa Tim had moved that morning. Another blanket stretched on the other end of the room from between two chairs and tented up to the wall with a pushpin. More blankets stretched with broom handles and books on shelves supporting them. The entire room looked like Bed, Bath & Beyond threw up on it.  
Raylan risked a glance at Tim. Tim, who apparently had no idea how serious Clare really did take blanket forts. He tried not to gape but as soon as Raylan caught his eye they both broke out snickering.  
"Shh," little Ethan said coming down the stairs behind them. "They'll hear you."  
Gretchen was trailing after him, lips pressed together. She shook her head slightly and followed Ethan into one of the forts.  
Clare and Evan followed them by about ten steps, "Those cheaters," Evan whispered, spying the quivering blankets.  
Clare raised an eyebrow at Tim and Raylan's expression then glanced at his knuckles.  
"Nice forts," Tim said.  
"That what you get being careful?" she shot back.  
Ethan apparently took her speaking as permission to run out and tackle Clare at speed. She didn't fall but swung him around, laughing, until he was upside-down. "Who you playin' with, boyo?" and tickled him to the ground.  
Evan grinned and jumped at them, shouting maniacally, "Ha ha!"  
Given that Clare wasn't very much taller than the boys, her swinging them around got smiles from the Marshals. "All right, we gotta borrow your cousin for a minute," Raylan said.  
The boys rolled their eyes, Gretchen called them back to the fort, "C'mon, and let Clare talk to the marshals, babes. She'll be back in a few."  
"Less than a few," Clare held up two fingers in scout's honor.  
She followed them to meet Rachel at the door, putting her coat on. "Raylan and I have to talk to someone, Tim is not invited, so he'll be in the house with ya'll."  
Raylan asked Clare, with his hand on the doorknob, "Have you mentioned anything about your suspicions of Graham to anyone?"  
"No. Why?"  
"Just curious," Raylan said with a look down the street.  
Clare followed his glance and Tim pulled her back from the door. "You remember what we talked about?" Tim reiterated.  
"Like I could forget."  
"Be careful," Clare said to Rachel, who responded, "You, too."

Tim assumed point with the blanket fort assaults, earning the twins' eternal respect when he interrupted Clare's attack on Evan (they'd switched teams) by picking her up by her waist and tickling her to the ground. They piled on them until Tim held up his hands in a "T", gasping, "Ok, lunch? Have we had lunch yet?"  
"Wimp," Clare gasped with Ethan still sprawled over her legs. "Hey, Gretchen? What time is it?"  
Izzie stuck her head in, "It's around one. Mom says Deputy Gutterson needs to call for lunch if we don't want sandwiches." Her eyes went to Tim, "Pepperoni with pineapple. No Papa John's."  
Tim saluted, "Anything else?"  
"Breadsticks, but only Little Caesar's," Ethan added, sitting up.  
Tim nodded, feeling for his cell before lying back on the floor, "Hey, Garcia... Family wants pizza, pepperoni and pineapple, and breadsticks from Little Caesar's... Yeah, ok." He hung up, "Half an hour."  
Clare said, "Go clean up so we can eat when it gets here." The boys got up and raced up the stairs as Clare called, "Wash your hands!" before curling towards Tim.  
He slipped an arm around her and said, "You want kids."  
She glanced up at him, "Not right now."  
He smiled, "But you want kids."  
"Two. Later. Are we talking about this?"  
He kissed her forehead, "Just trying to know what I'm in for."  
"You don't want kids?"  
In truth, he hadn't actually thought about it much. He hadn't particularly pondered his parenting skills either. He was a "port in the storm" man. Kids were up there with untreated venereal disease... Best avoided through liberal condom application.  
But he did sign up for a normal life. He'd resigned the mad minute for a life with a bed and a paycheck in the world, not the third world. Waking up with Clare was nice. And he'd do it as long as he could...but kids?  
Kids were messy and annoying if he remembered correctly. His sister didn't even have any. It had taken Raylan how long to knock up Winona? Sure, he like hanging out with Rachel's nephew, Nick. But he's more adolescent than *kid*.


	26. Chapter 26

Tony Kender, twice divorced, third generation prison guard and amateur gambler.  
He'd started gambling to supplement his income after getting shafted with double alimony, and then he'd stuck with it. Even after taking a loan from Emmett Arnett. Even after Wynn fricking Duffy started coming to him for payments.  
It hadn't taken him long to hear about Duffy after he'd met him. Duffy, Billy Mack and the face on the soccer ball. The shoot-out with Arnett. Duffy was scary. Even when he'd had to make his payment with that Yankee albino in the background, Duffy had been the one he watched.  
Being a guard was all about your stature. You stood tall, strong and didn't take shit. Not from anyone. Or you're dead. A prison wasn't survival of the fittest as much as survival of the meanest.  
That didn't mean bullying, his father had taught him. It meant a mutual respect without coddling, like training a wild animal. You keep your distance, you don't pick a fight, and you're always ready to finish one. These were Tony's principles, at least, once upon a time.  
Before Arnett and Duffy, when he could look at himself in the mirror.  
Tony had stopped for groceries on his way home after a double shift. The 24 hour Wal-Mart had been nearly empty and he'd pondered his...situation through the aisles and came to the decision he couldn't tell Duffy about the bag. What anyone from Harlan County was doing with a Panamanian diplomatic pouch was dangerous anyway... It would only end in blood and Tony wanted out. He hadn't wanted to kill Stark and he hadn't wanted to give Sullivan those names. He especially hadn't wanted to kill those two scumbags after they shot up the house.  
Tony eyed the beef stew microwave dinners in his cart remembering. There are always carrots when you threw up. Why is that? He didn't even remember the last time he'd eaten carrots, but sure enough, when he'd puked after shooting those boys over their failure, there had been carrots.  
Tony got home around eight that morning. He left the groceries in the backseat as he plodded to unlock his walk-up. Reaching his door, he fiddled for his key and pushed it in the lock. The door opened under the pressure.

Rachel and Raylan made it to Tony Kender's address quickly with Raylan deflecting questions about what he and Tim had 'talked about.'  
It was a colonial style, split into apartments with stairs up the back of the house. Aged, with cracking powder blue paint peeling off the siding and white paint on the trim cracking off. They marked his car in the drive, Wal-Mart bags in the seat, and started on the stairs, Raylan leading.  
The door was open to a small galley-style kitchen. Dingy pine cabinets and stained counters. The sink was clean but for the slight drip of the faucet as Raylan pulled and motioned to Rachel, hollering, "Federal Marshals. Mr. Kender. Mr. Kender, are you in? U. S. Marshals Service." He cleared the kitchen and living room; she covered the small bath, kicking the door so it hit the wall behind it. They found him in the small bedroom, bed unmade and caddy-cornered to give him the space to hang himself from the light.  
"Duffy wouldn't kill his own crooked guard. Right?" Rachel asked, eyeing the corpse.  
"Nope. I think Duffy may be displeased with this turn of events."  
"Like xenomorph with a toothache, maybe," she quipped.

Raylan called Art to report it, leaving Rachel to tell Tim their lead was a, rather literal, dead-end.  
Kender had been dead a few hours when Rachel and Raylan arrived, rigor not having set in. Raylan pointed out the groceries in the backseat to the responding officers, who promised to keep the Marshals in the loop, before he dropped Rachel at the safe house so he and Tim could see Duffy again.

They swung by Hardees for lunch and a game plan. Over burgers, Tim lamented the loss of the only connection between Duffy and Graham Sullivan. Raylan told him to shut the hell up. "Look, we'll find a way. We have the phone calls. And we have Moss."  
"Moss is a fucking psycho. He's about as helpful as Boyd Crowder."  
Raylan shot him a look under his lashes. "Truer words were never spoken."  
"What the hell does that mean?"  
Raylan shook his head, "We'll run down Duffy and then we'll see who to go to, Graham or Moss? Alright?"  
"Whatever, alright," he affirmed.  
"So," Raylan said, not really knowing where the conversation should go now, "Ok."  
Tim smirked at Raylan's discomfort, "So, when do you know what the baby is?"  
"Huh? Oh, Winona isn't sure she wants to know. She's thinking about saving until the delivery room."  
"Because there isn't enough drama in delivery rooms."  
"So, Clare wants kids?"  
"Yup. Someday."  
"And you..."  
"Never thought about it."  
"So, you don't want to talk about it?"  
"Not with you."  
"More of an 'Art' conversation," Raylan agreed.  
"Not likely to involve the phrase 'marshal stiffies', though."  
"Very true. I have no idea where he'd fit that one in."

Duffy had moved the Wynn-ebago to one of his construction sites, they'd found it through a BOLO with the FPD. The second car was closer and Mike was at the door when they pulled in.  
Tim was out the car before it had come to a complete stop and Duffy was slinking down his steps at a word from Mike. Beaming graciously he started, "Greetings, Marshals. To what do I owe the pleasure of a second visit? I gather Tony was as helpful as promised."  
"Oh, you have no idea."  
"Tony's dead." Tim sauntered towards Wynn, "Hanged himself after grocery shopping. Is that 'as helpful as promised', Wynn?"  
Wynn's eyes widened, but there was no noticeable reaction beyond that, "That is a tragic loss."  
"We thought so," Raylan quipped.  
"So, about Edgar Moss?" Tim started.  
"Now, you're on about Moss? I just lost an asset here. I may need time to mourn here."  
"Wynn," Tim asked, still sauntering, "do we need to take this conversation indoors?"  
Raylan suppressed a smile. "Mike and I can entertain each other if you all need a minute, can't we, Mike?"  
Mike kept his hand on his piece, still eyeing Tim, who was nose to nose with Wynn now.  
"Deputy Gutterson, I assure you I had nothing to do with Mr. Kender's untimely demise."  
"That wasn't the question," Tim said softly. Wynn had a couple of inches and a few miles of crazy on Tim, but Tim had training and good helping of protective rage on his side, if needed. Plus Quick draw McGivens behind him.  
"Moss is a customer of Duffy Security. Naturally, we talk. Graham Sullivan is still a customer of Duffy Security, we talk. I assist when necessary. I gave him Tony Kender's name, in good faith he wouldn't get my asset dead," Wynn explained reasonably. "I am legitimately distraught at his loss here. Tony and I had plans."  
"Plans pertaining to the death of Sam Porter?" Raylan tossed in nonchalantly.  
"Among other things," he responded primly.  
"So, you provide security and assistance to two business rivals and when the family of one them starts being threatened, you don't think they're connected?"  
Wynn pursed his lips, "Is this about the girl doctor, Liddy... Lippy?"  
Raylan's eyes slid to Tim.  
Tim wasn't just Dead-Eye-Dick with a rifle, either. "How long have you been involved with Moss, Mr. Duffy?"  
"A few years...maybe five or six. A good customer is never neglected at Duffy Security.  
"Did Mr. Moss give your name to the Sullivan's?"  
"I never asked. If Mr. Moss was satisfied enough to recommend me, who am I to question?"  
"Could either one of your 'good customers' have killed Mr. Kender?" Tim pushed.  
"It would be terribly unfortunate if one of them had."  
Tim turned back to Raylan, "Mr. Duffy and I are taking a moment. We'll be back," he gestured to the motor coach. "Walk. Walk."  
Wynn did walk, glancing back at Mike once, reminding Raylan of the 'precautions,' he'd mentioned earlier.


	27. Chapter 27

Brian and Gretchen made the twins sit down to their own homework after pizza, leaving Rachel, Izzie, and Clare to themselves. The girls, lounging in front of daytime TV, meandered through talking about clothes, Izzie's potential career options, school dances, and, finally, boys. Both Rachel and Izzie gave Clare sly looks before Rachel asked if Izzie had her eye on anyone.  
"No one serious. High school boys are high school boys, the only ones I'd be interested in see me as a, I dunno, little sister. It sucks."  
"They're always like that," Clare assured her.  
Izzie gave her a sideways look that Rachel pre-empted, "It's always tough for a strong woman. No matter what century, it's a bitch to find the right man."  
Izzie continued her sideways look at Clare, this time Rachel did not intervene, then she turned to Rachel, "So, your colleague, Deputy Gutterson, yeah, he mentioned diamonds last night."  
Rachel's eyebrows skyrocketed. Clare's eyes merely rolled.  
"Yeah, they were cuddling, and I said something about not wanting a lousy dress for the wedding-"  
"And he made a joke," Clare interrupted. "Stop it."  
"A grown man knows better than to joke about diamonds with his girl next to him," Izzie snarked with fifteen-year-old wisdom.  
"You'd like to think so, huh?" Clare shot back.  
Rachel laughed and put her hand over her mouth, "You two sound so much like me and my sister." She snorted, "Sorry, it's not funny."  
"No, it's a little funny," Clare conceded, with Izzie's nod of confirmation.  
"We used to argue like that. It's reassuring the things that stay the same."  
"Used to?" Izzie said to Clare's wince.  
"She passed a few years ago."  
"I'm sorry," Izzie pressed on, ignorant of Clare's silent efforts to get her to shut up. "Were you close?"  
"Once upon a time," Rachel said with sad smile, "We grew apart and then she got married and had Nick, my nephew, and then there was an accident. And she died."  
"I'm sorry," Izzie repeated, taking Rachel's hand. Rachel glanced at Clare, taking Izzie's hand, "Savor the one's you love. That's what that teaches us. Let the ones we love know it."  
"I love you, Clare-bear."  
"I love you, Izzie-bean."  
Then the three laughed and dismissed all seriousness. "So, Tim mentioned something relating to commitment? Does that mean you're going to be the commitment phobic one?"  
Clare pressed her lips together, smile playing at them, "I've never been scared of anything in my life, Deputy Brooks. And that is all I will say on the subject."  
Izzie leant over, "See, why I brought up the dress?"

Duffy sat at a little table and gestured for Tim to sit. Tim sat. "I don't know who killed Tony. I haven't had a dealing with Graham Sullivan years. He's a customer, but we don't how do you say, keep up with each other."  
"And Moss?"  
"I'm trusting, Marshal, that you are rather more, um, stable than our friend Deputy Givens," Wynn said.  
"Mr. Duffy, I don't know what Raylan has done lately to earn your fear and respect, but if I have to ask him, please trust I will be more creative than Raylan in earning your fear and respect."  
Duffy blinked, "Noted."  
"I was asking about Edgar Moss."  
"Spoke to him a few days ago."  
"Did he have dealings with Tony Kender?" Tim repeated.  
"Not that I am currently aware of."  
"So, he didn't mention it when you spoke two days ago."  
"No."  
"Uh huh. So, what did ya'll talk about?"  
"He purchased a new piece of artwork, he was curious if I thought he should upgrade his security for it."  
"Uh huh. I'd think that conversation might take longer than seven and a half minutes, Mr. Duffy."  
"Well, I can't help what you think, Deputy Gutterson."  
"When you say 'currently aware,' does that mean you need to ask around?"  
Duffy smiled his snake smile, "What does it get me if I do?"  
"It saves you the beating you should get for mentioning that little doctor."  
"Oh, is that all? I'll be sure to look into that."  
Tim's hand reached out and slammed Duffy's face into the tabletop before he could stop himself. Not that he wanted to stop himself.  
"Fuck!" Duffy said nasally, what with the blood coming out his nose and all.  
"If you'd prefer the beating..." Tim offered conversationally.  
" 'I'll see what I can do', is that what you'd like to hear?"  
"Am I hearing it?"  
Duffy pulled a pristine handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his nose then spat into it, "Yes. Is that all?"  
Tim rose, placed a card from his pocket on the table next to Duffy's blood, and leaned over to say softly, "If you mention the little doctor again, you'll start missing my partner's impulsive violence. Is that clear?"  
Duffy nodded, "Crystal, Deputy."  
"Good. I look forward to your call. Have a nice day, Mr. Duffy," Tim turned and walked back out to Raylan and Mike.  
Raylan watched Tim with a growing sense of anxiety. His swagger was too controlled. His expression, too empty. Put it this way, if it hadn't been his partner walking towards him, Raylan would have given serious thought to pulling his side arm.  
As it was, Tim just walked past them and got in the passenger seat. Raylan tipped his hat to Mike and got in the driver's side. "Anything new?"  
"Pointed us at Graham. Said he'd ask around."  
"He'd 'ask around'?"  
"Seemed very friendly once I'd explained everything. Are we going to Graham's office now?"  
Raylan turned on the Town car, "Yeah, sure. Graham's office."

Q greeted them and offered to escort them to Graham's office. "I put a guy, Walker, with him since the attacks on Brian and Clare."  
Tim nodded. Raylan introduced himself, "So, anything exciting happen lately?"  
Q grinned, "My job to keep it from being exciting. And I'm good at my job."  
Raylan smiled, shaking Q's hand without much of the previous apprehension he would have had over shaking hands with any one of Wynn Duffy's business acquaintances. He and Q spared a glance to Tim's unchanging expression and then each other. "We really need to talk to Graham," he explained.  
"Uh huh," Q's eyes narrowed, and he punched the elevator button a little more vigorously than necessary. "So, Graham wants out, huh?"  
Raylan's eyes went to Q, but Tim just said, "Yup."  
Q hit the button once more, glared at the non-responsive elevator, then turned to the receptionist at the desk in the middle of the entryway, "Stella, have we heard about a problem with the elevators?"  
"Not today, I can call Maintenance for you?" the perkily competent middle-aged woman offered.  
"Yeah, but can you call up to Graham Sullivan's office for us first?" Q exchanged glances with the Marshals, pulling his walkie.  
Stella nodded, already calling up.  
Q got on his radio, "Q to Pete, you still with Graham? Over."  
Q got static. The three made for the stairs as Stella shouted, "Graham's on a call with Brian, Mandy says. She hasn't seen Pete since lunch."  
Raylan pointed at her, instructing as Tim and Q started taking the steps three at a time, "Call the Lexington Marshal's office. Tell them exactly what you told us." Stella nodded, phone to her ear. Raylan started up the stairs, calling reinforcements through 9-1-1 on his cell.

Rachel was bored. Clare and Izzie had resumed combat tactics with the twins after they'd finished their long-division. Gretchen was taking a nap to avoid killing the twins after their long-division debacle, and Brian was on his laptop with an earpiece in reviewing reports, near as she could tell.  
Garcia was in the van out front and Rachel was more than a little jealous. She couldn't very well sit and play Bad Piggies in front of her protectees, could she?  
Couldn't even review her list of fugitives suspected of being in the Eastern District.  
It was nearing dinnertime by the time Clare and Izzie opted to strike and the boys attached themselves to Rachel with big eyes, "What do Marshals do?"  
"Lots of stuff. Mostly fugitives, prisoner transport, we run the Witness Protection Program, too."  
Her phone rang, cutting off their next question, "Hey, Garcia..."  
Rachel stiffened. Clare watched her from the couch. "Boys, let's go upstairs and see Mama," she whispered looking at Rachel.  
Rachel nodded, mouthed, "Closet," at her.  
Rachel rose, going to Brian, still at the kitchen table,"Mr. Sullivan, I need you upstairs now."  
"But-"  
"Now," her tone brooked no further argument but raised eyebrows.  
Garcia was on her way into the house now, gun drawn. "Seen anything?"  
"No. Not yet."

Graham was sitting calmly at his desk, eyes glancing up, unsurprised at their bursting in. His secretary tailing uselessly behind them, "I'm sorry, sir."

"Its fine, Mandy," he said in his best fish expression. "Gentlemen. It's usually customary among... people to knock."  
Tim was not in a "knocking on doors" mood. "Knocking on people," on the other hand...  
He was over the desk before either Q or Raylan could stop him. "Call it off," he growled, overpriced shirt-and-tie in his fist.  
"Call what off, Deputy," he asked with distracting calmness from the floor.  
Raylan circled the desk to see Tim, expressionless with rage, and Graham, almost smug. "Tim," he warned.  
"I got this, Raylan," he replied conversationally.  
Q was behind Raylan when he looked over, offering, "There's a lot of cameras and the like around here, man."  
"You do still work for me, Mr. Quinton. I'd hope you would enjoy your position enough to want to keep it," Graham's eyes never left Tim's.  
"Call it off, old man," Tim whispered.  
"Prove I know what you're talking about," Graham whispered back.  
Tim reached back to take a swing, and his and Raylan's phones rang.  
Raylan took the call as Q stepped closer to Graham, "Where's Pete?"  
"Mr. Walker took the afternoon off. I trust I'll be released soon, Deputy Gutterson?"  
Tim still had his hand back when Raylan said, "We've got to the safe house. Now." Raylan leant over Graham's still prone body as Q pulled back, presumably to call his man. "If something happened, either to his girl or those kids, know we will be back. And we will not care about 'cameras and the like'. Am I clear?"


	28. Chapter 28

Clare ignored her anxiety to herd the twins and Gretchen into the far-too-tiny safe room in the closet of the master bedroom. She and Izzie were looking for a spot of their own when Brian stumbled into them, "Where's Gretch and the boys?"  
"Safe room, in there. Too small for everyone," Izzie said while Clare kept an eye on the stairs.  
Brian pulled Clare's wrist to get her attention and she twisted his arm reflexively before turning to him, "Sorry," she mouthed. "There's a crawlspace above the closet in the boys' room. We'll go there."  
Shadows on the stairs distracted Clare as Brian pulled his daughter away.  
It was Garcia, putting a finger to her mouth at the sight of Clare, patrolling the ground floor.  
Clare darted after Brian and Izzie, finding Brian hoisting Izzie up into the ceiling. He offered his hands as a foothold to her.  
She shook her head, folding her hands, "Easier if you pull me up than me pull you."  
He nodded briefly after a moment of indecision. Clare held as he pulled himself up and reached a hand down for her as they heard shots fired.

The second gunman entered through the sliding glass door in the kitchen, surprising Rachel into firing two shots. "Clear!"  
The first had opted through the garage window, managing to sneak up on Garcia with a, "thud," to the back of her head with a rock from outside.  
Rachel was checking the body in front of her, calling it in, as the second gunman was catching Garcia's body before she could fall. He laid her out before springing up the stairs ahead of Rachel.

Clare motioned for Brian to close the crawlspace, after the shots were fired. He hesitated and Clare waved again, before ducking down as she heard the stairs creaking and doors being opened.  
He moved through the other rooms, kicking doors, ripping down the shower curtain from the sound of it, before he ducked into the boys room as Clare heard the stairs creak.  
She peeked under the closet door to watch him tip the chest of drawers in front of the bedroom door. Well, shit.  
He moved towards her closet.

Rachel raced up the stairs as soon as she found Garcia's unconscious body, left on the laundry room floor. She made it up in time to see the door to the boys' room close and she started kicking at it, shouting, "Federal Marshal! Open up!"

The gunman didn't even glance back on his way to Clare's closet. She stood and squeezed herself as small as she could to one side of the door.  
It opened, gun in first. She pulled it past her, pushing his arm against the doorjamb with enough force for him to drop it as the heel of her other hand went to his nose.  
He stumbled back, and she spared a curse for her poor angle of attack. She went for the gun and he lunged for her. She scratched his eyes trying to push him off enough to get a leg up to kick or knee him. His hand went around hers on the gun slamming her fingers against the flooring over and over again, while the other took a solid swing at her left cheekbone.  
Clare ignored the spots dancing in front of her eyes to head-butt his already bleeding nose and pushed him back enough to kick him, sending him two or three feet to her right, hand still on hers and the gun.

Rachel started shooting at the door. Hearing Tim and Raylan come up the stairs, she called, "Gunman's in here, I sent the family to the safe room."  
Tim looked through a couple of Rachel's holes, "Yeah, there's a dresser in front of it. Fuck. Safe room?"  
Rachel said, "Haven't checked it but Gretchen was sleeping on that bed." She gestured to the master bedroom across the hall, seemingly empty.  
Nelson and Art made it up the stairs at this point, "Safe room?"  
Nelson went to the master bedroom to check it out.  
"Dresser in front."  
Tim and Art looked at each other.  
Nelson came out a moment later with Gretchen and the twins. "Where?" was all Gretchen mouthed.  
"Get them outta here," Art instructed before shots were heard.


	29. Chapter 29

Okay, I rushed a bit to post this one in time... Happy Mardi Gras, everybody!

Clare was a New Orleans girl. Summer and weekends in the swamps with her brothers and cousins after her dad lost his NOPD gig aside, she was the child of an NOPD cop. The NOPD did one thing well. Their shining honor was crowd control. And police and federals from all over learned crowd control from the NOPD for one reason._ Mardi Gras_.  
Now, Mardi Gras has certain rules. You keep your wallet and your keys in your front pocket to avoid getting picked. You keep your hand over it. And you never, NEVER put your hand on something on the ground, you always put your foot on something on the ground before you pick it up.  
Clare pulled herself back enough to slam her foot into his wrist. Over and over and over again. He let go after she saw blood and she aimed and fired.  
Over and over and over again.  
She stopped after four shots, wondering about another gunman. Clare whispered, "Its fine. I'm ok, just stay there for now," to Brian and Izzie in the crawlspace.  
She wiped the blood from her shoe on the carpet as she heaved, more than she thought she should, the chest from the door. She opened the door, her back to the wall next to it, gun at the ready like her daddy taught her and her brothers.  
And saw Tim raise his for a millisecond before crushing her to his chest. She leant on him and handed Raylan the gun, saying to the others, "Brian and Izzie are in the crawlspace. Sorry, Rachel, but I'm not finding protective custody terribly effective." To Tim, she said, "Get me out of here."  
Tim kept her close to him, and she just about collapsed into him. Art nodded for him to take her downstairs.

Clare was moving her penlight in front of Garcia's eyes, when Art came down with Brian and Izzie. Garcia's head had an ice-pack on it and Clare seemed, if not recovered from killing a man ten minutes before, then at least, in her element.  
Tim was watching her, too, arms folded, leaning against the wall. Tense as a live wire. "She's shot someone before, right? When her daddy was killed?"  
"Didn't kill him though. It's different… That fucker hit her," Neither Tim's voice nor gaze changed as he pointed out the obvious.  
"I don't like my safe house being compromised."  
"Secretary said Graham and Brian were on a call when we arrived," Tim said.  
"Well, shit." A beat passed. "Take your girl home when this is through. I'll post a car out front."  
Tim pursed his lips and nodded.  
Garcia walked out with Nelson for Clare's prescribed CT scan, "just to be safe," and Gretchen left the comfort of her family to hug Clare and whisper in her ear.  
Clare closed her eyes at whatever Gretchen said and gave a close-mouthed smile. Art let them have their moment before saying, "Mr. Sullivan, did you have a call with your brother today?" Off his confused nod, Art continued grimly, "We're going to need to talk to you. Rachel and Raylan are going to take Mrs. Sullivan and the kids someplace safe. C'mon."

At the office, Clare sat at Tim's desk filling out her statement and holding an ice-pack to her face as Brian sat in horror in the conference room.  
Listening to the Marshals Service say that his brother was trying to kill him was bad. Listening to them say the gunmen were at the safe house because Brian had compromised their safety was something else entirely.  
Brian looked through the window at Clare at that point. She went into the conference room then. Kept her eyes on her uncle's growing horror. Brian kept looking to Clare as Art riddled off the evidence. "Can I, uh, can I talk to Clare alone for a minute?" he asked, his mouth too dry to form the words correctly.  
Art nodded and stood, Tim remaining until Clare tilted her head at him. She caught and squeezed his hand on his way out, not looking away from Brian, but needing some of Tim's strength.

Art watched Clare sit next to her uncle and said to Tim, "She gonna be ok?"  
"She's been on the run for three years, Art. I'm doubting there's much she can't handle."  
"And how are you handling it?"  
Tim swallowed, "I want this bastard. On a fucking spit... Deep fried..." he licked his lips, "I can't be the one to take a shot on this. I need Raylan there. I can't kill him. Not like I want to."  
Art eyed him, reading between Tim's lines, not knowing if he should be more concerned about Tim's concern or the risk of Tim thinking he might murder someone, rather than just kill them, if given the opportunity.  
"I won't let you go anywhere alone," Art promised.

Brian was near tears when Clare walked out, back stiff and jaw clenched. She went to the coffee maker and stayed there as Nelson came into say Garcia would have a headache for a day or so, but would be fine. Art took Nelson in with him to the conference room. Saying a few words to Brian before sending him out with Deputy Nelson. Art stayed for a few more minutes with Clare's statement, admiring the resourcefulness while wondering how close to her limit she was.  
Tim was finishing a report as Art left, he said his good byes with a brief nod to Tim and a, "Take it easy, doc."  
After shutting down his computer, Tim went to her, not quietly, not sneaking, and slipped his hands around her waist. "I was really happy this morning."  
She snorted, holding his hands to her, "I bet."  
"You gonna be ok?" his fingers were feather light over her swollen cheek.  
"Eventually. Never killed anyone before."  
"It was a good shoot."  
She fought back a sob, "I want my dad. I know it's silly, but I want my daddy, Tim."  
She lay her forehead on him and took a shuddering breath.  
He brushed her hair back with his fingers, "It's not silly, babe. I'm sorry. I should have been there."  
She looked up at him and rolled her eyes, "You can't be everywhere. I don't need you to save me. I'm a big girl." She paused, "I just get tired of it sometimes."  
He stood there just holding her, until she pulled her head back to look at him and he asked, "You wanna get outta here?"  
She nodded. "Desperately."


	30. Chapter 30

He caught the van outside his townhouse and nodded to the Marshal inside it. Pulling her bags from the back, he passed her his keys. "On the right."  
She held the door for him, taking her medical bag from him as he closed the door, locking the deadbolt.  
"Um, kitchen, living room, half bath," he pointed, "Bedrooms and bathroom, upstairs."  
She nodded to the bookshelf, "That's a lot of Harry Potter."  
"I like it," he tried not to sound defensive.  
She kissed him softly, "I love you."  
He leant into her gently, holding tight, smelling the burnt powder in her hair. "What do you-"  
"Shower?"  
"Top of the stairs," he took her medical bag and set it down on the coffee table, before moving to follow her.  
At the bathroom door, she took her bag from him, setting it on the counter and pulling her toiletries, such as they were, from it. "You coming too?"  
He surprised himself by thinking about it. "You sure?"  
"I might cry," she warned.  
"Doesn't scare me," he lied.  
She nodded, turning on the water. He pulled off his shirt as she adjusted the temperature. Untying his boots and tossing his socks in the basket, he sat on the edge of the tub with her. "Clare," he said softly.  
When she didn't respond, he pulled her hands away from the water, "Clare."  
She had tears already, "I hate being scared. I hate it. The whole time he was stalking around the house, I... I kept thinkin' 'what would Dad be doin'?' or Danny or _you_... And when he stuck his hand through that closet I was okay. I- I could do it... But, after?"  
"Couldn't breathe?" he pulled her into his lap.  
"After the adrenaline, all I wanted to do was throw up," she confessed. "When my dad... It wasn't like that."  
"You were a little focused on other stuff." Tim swallowed, "Your file never said he was still alive when you found him. I didn't know."  
She nodded, head still leaning on him, sniffing, "I didn't even think then. I just went to Daddy and pulled. And fired."  
"Your dad was dying on the floor. You didn't see Izzie or the twins in danger tonight... You got them away from it. What happened, if it had to happen, was one of the best ways it could have gone. Except for him taking a swing at you. That's _still_ pissing me off—" Clare cut him off with a kiss, but he continued, "Everyone's ok, Garcia'll be fine... and the contractor community is shrinking daily."  
She snorted and looked up at him with a budding smile. "Not even funny."  
"Lil' bit?"  
"Not even a tiny bit."  
They sat there quiet for a long moment before Tim said it, "I don't really know what to say here."  
She chuckled and sniffed. "I don't think anybody does, babe."  
"I love you. Know to say that."  
She tilted her head up to look at him, " We were happy this morning."  
"Yeah." Kissing her forehead, he muttered, "I had all sorts of ideas for when I got you here."  
"And they didn't involve letting me sob in your bathroom." Clare sniffed, "Jeez, Gutterson, no creativity at all."  
He was reassured, by the glint in her eye and the dry tone of her voice, enough to tug off her t-shirt. She kissed him like she meant it when her head was free. They took their time moving under the water, being slow and almost gentle soaping each other.  
Finally, Tim ran his hands from her breasts down as she was rinsing her hair, dropping to his knees.  
He held her hips still as he licked into her once. She gasped in shock, grasping his shoulders reflexively, knees rocking, "Tim?"  
"Recalling this morning," he smirked, before flicking her clit with the tip of his tongue just to feel Clare move against him.  
"Wouldn't be easier to fuck me against the wall?" she eyed him with heat.  
Yes. "We got all the time in the world," he smiled.  
Her response was to move one hand into his slicked-back hair and push his head back down. Maneuvering one hand to widen her stance he slipped a testing finger into her as he pressed his flattened tongue against her, and her hand in his hair tightened as she moved with him. Tim slipped another finger in, pushing higher against her already tightening muscles, "Tim, babe," as the tip of his tongue explored her moving, wet heat. "Tim-"

Clare didn't want to stand there and be serviced. But the sight of Tim's hopeful smile saying, "We got all the time in the world," made her heart ache in all the right ways. So, she let him. And lo and behold, she was standing in a shower breathless and gasping, biting her tongue to keep from shouting, "Oh, suck my clit already!" before her knees gave out.  
Then he did, and her knees gave out as she came.  
Tim caught her.  
When she could breathe again, she muttered, "Next time, flat surface."  
He smirked, smug as a cat with cream, "Yes, ma'am."  
She swatted him on the shoulder and he laughed, a full belly laugh, and she tried to commit every line on his face, every drop hitting their bodies to her memory to keep the moment.  
"So, last night, you told me to find you a bed," he started.  
"I 'member. Do you have one in mind?"  
He leant over to turn off the water, then picked her up, bridal style, and she laughed. "I do."  
"Take me to bed, Gutterson."

Clare had grabbed the towel from the rack on their way out and tossed it on the bed before he set her on it.  
Tim spared a brief thought to how romantic flannel sheets weren't, but he remembered the last time he washed them, so he figured they weren't too bad.  
They moved slowly for the first time ever. She was still breathing hard from the shower and he was still a little hesitant about her vulnerability. Holding each other's eyes rather than lips as they memorized each other. When they finally did kiss, soft and naked, the fire smoldered and they pulled back only learn what made the other's eyes roll back in their head.  
Clare ran her tongue under his top lip and felt him stiffen. His tongue dragged across the roof of her mouth and she'd moan. She let her fingers trail up and down his spine and he'd moan, stiffening against her belly. His hands were rough on her breasts and her nipples felt on fire waiting for his touch. She gripped his shaft, first gently, then with rougher and rougher tugs as he buried his face in her throat and pulled her thighs further apart.  
She guided him into her, moaning and arching up at the shock of his penetration. Tim stayed close, moving within her. Pulling his head back, he tried to catch her eye, "Clare. Look at me, Clare!"  
She opened her eyes then, bleary and lust-fogged. She keened something unintelligible, dragging her nails down his back.  
"I love you, Clare," he managed to get out before he lost it, coming inside her.  
"Don't let go of me," she whispered.

Clare was dead to the world after she fell asleep. Tim didn't know if it was the stress or the sex, but she was gone a few minutes after she came, head on his chest, holding onto him. It was sort of nice.  
Her hair wasn't making his chest itch, her breath wasn't tickling. He watched her breathe for a few moments, enjoying the innocence of her expression. The easy trust of falling asleep with a lover.  
Or with a stranger in the woods, he amended with a smile.  
Tim did try to sleep. Tried to settle for rest, too.  
After forty-five minutes of watching a woman he loved sleep, after the exhausting day of her having to kill a man coming after her, he gave up. Clare's exhaustion worked in his favor as he slid from beneath her. She moaned softly as she curled up in the warmth he left behind and resumed her soft breathing.  
He dressed silently before picking his cell and sidearm from the bathroom, and he called the only person who'd back his chosen play. Raylan.

Dozing in the chairs at the hotel was so much worse than dozing on the couch at the safe house, Raylan let Rachel do it while he mainlined Chaney's Vanilla from the Stop'N Go next door. He kept an eye out the window on the parking lot until his cell vibrated. Tim.  
The same Tim who should have been busy with Clare at his place under the less-than-overbearing eye of a van outside. "What?"  
"I wanna visit Graham. I was hoping you'd lend a hand in letting him know his family is safe and sound," he replied with disturbing affability.  
Neck hair sufficiently goosed, Raylan replied, "Well, that's awfully generous of you to want to keep him from worrying, but I think it's fucking stupid to want to stir this shit in the middle of the night."  
"Because you've never done that?"  
Raylan scowled at the air in front of him in place of his colleague, "I don't recall inviting you on that particular field trip, Tim."  
"But as a senior Marshal, it's your responsibility to assist in mentoring junior Marshals. Like me," Tim being this friendly was scarier than Tim with Duffy, in Raylan's opinion.  
"Let me wake Rachel up."  
"'Braver man than I, Gunga Din'," was Tim's line before hanging up.  
"Dickhead."


	31. Chapter 31

Tim pulled up and waited. Raylan was out the door and in the SUV before Rachel had closed it behind him. "I'd like to clarify; I think this is a bad idea."  
"I know. I got it from the '_What would Raylan do?_' handbook," he said lightly, pulling out and onto the main drag with little care for things like traffic laws and other vehicles.  
Raylan got to scowl at his colleague himself this time, which was far more satisfying than scowling at air. "Oh, so there's a handbook?"  
"Oh, yeah, Art gives out to let people know what sets off his angina," Tim changed lanes, speeding past the three cars that had been in front of him.  
"Like screwing a former-fugitive protectee?"  
"Nope, handbook only mentioned witnesses. Y'think he should issue an amended version? Include all the shit that's been pulled since the last one?"  
"Oh, yeah," Raylan said, opting out of the scowl due to its lack of effectiveness, "maybe have two versions. Abridged. Unabridged. Little footnotes with anecdotes of similar shit pulled by amateurs."  
"Amateurs? Huh? Like somebody asking his partner to find the guy he wants to threaten instead of finding the guy himself? That shit's fuckin' amateur."  
Tim pulled up to an unassuming brick house that irrationally reminded Raylan of Macaulay Culkin, and said, "You backing me or not?"  
"You're askin' _now_?" Raylan scoffed and got out the SUV and stared walking up to the door. Tim wasn't more than a step behind him.  
It took a few minutes for anyone to come to the door and a mousy, beige-robed, menopausal woman wasn't quite what Raylan had expected... But then this wasn't his show.  
"Mrs. Sullivan, I'm Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson. We met a few years ago..." he said through the barely open door.  
"When you were looking for Clare. I remember you," Mrs. Sullivan finished hesitantly. "Graham doesn't want ya'll here. It's late." She started to close the door but Tim stuck his foot in.  
"Mrs. Sullivan, we need to talk to your husband. About Clare," Raylan said, turning on his "_We're-all-understanding-reasonable-people-no-need-to-not-cooperate_" voice. "We won't take very long."  
Her gaze flickered between them. She stepped back just a bit and opened the door. "She's not in trouble again, is she?"  
"Did Graham mention Clare has a price on her head?" Tim asked softly, while Raylan took off his hat and took in the immaculate model-home feel of the place. At least Gary had done his stupid vanilla-on-foil trick to keep places from feeling this plastic.  
Lou-Anne Sullivan wasn't much of a beauty, but she had strong bone structure unmarred by anyone's temper. But she was jumpy as his mother after Arlo'd been gone a few days though. Just waiting for a shoe to drop.  
"Is Graham in, Mrs. Sullivan?" Raylan whispered as soon as Tim was done describing Clare's evening.  
Mrs. Sullivan nodded, pale eyes gaping as wide as her mouth under her ladylike hand. "Is Clare..."  
"She was fine when I left her. Sleeping like baby," Tim reassured.  
"That poor girl. Graham's upstairs, resting. Said he rough day 'dealing with the unclean'. That was how he put it. How he usually puts it, really," she added with a childlike sheepishness, before catching herself. "He's under so much pressure at work. With Clare's return and all. He's always had the load on his shoulders, sometimes he's just too stressed to be graceful about it."  
Tim's face hardened at her excuse but said nothing. Raylan pushed, "Has he told you what the problem is with Clare coming?"  
"The business, of course. Michael, when he retired, that's Graham's father, Clare's grandfather, he divided the business equally between his three kids, and those shares between their kids, y'see? But Maggie ran off with that policeman at 18, never had anything to do with the business. And Brian, well, Brian's there by default. He's never really done well at much of anything. But my Graham, he's been there his whole life. It's how we met. My father managed a company Graham bought. He's given everything to it. We never had children, because we had so many social obligations to its success, we thought it'd be unfair to a child."  
Tim gave Raylan a look that told him what he thought of that line.  
Raylan continued, "More considerate than most prospective parents. Have you ever heard the name Wynn Duffy mentioned? Or perhaps a Tony Kender? Anthony Kender?"  
Mrs. Sullivan bit her lip as she pondered, "The man who installed our security system-the owner, not the literal installer, his name was Fletcher." Her face looked ten years younger as her monologue digressed, too big of a change for even Tim to cut her off, "I remember because I had a cat named Fletcher when I was young-his name was Duffy. I never heard his first name. And Kender? Well, Edgar-Edgar Moss-he mentioned a Kender at dinner a few days ago. A little before Clare came back." Her lit up face deflated a bit remembering Clare. "Did they do this to her? This Duffy and this Kender?"  
"Did what to her?"  
"Frame her for that corruption," Lou-Anne looked off in the distance and swallowed, "I knew she wasn't involved. I was just too scared to say at the time. I was so afraid it was my fault they'd pulled her in it, but it wouldn't be going on like this if it was just because Clare and I talked?"  
Tim formed his words very carefully as Raylan blinked at her, "Did you know they were falsifying things on the transplant lists, Mrs. Sullivan?"  
"My sister, Megan. She needed a liver transplant. But she was AB positive..."  
"The rarest blood type. Chances were she'd never get a transplant," Raylan finished.  
"I'm B. I couldn't even donate blood to help with her operation when she had it," Mrs. Sullivan confessed in a whisper. "He said it would take years before Megan would even get a chance at one, with her statistics. Then he said he could help with that."  
"Who said that?" Raylan whispered.  
"The man taking Meg's information. Colin."  
Tim and Raylan looked at each other. Shit.  
"Did Graham and Colin ever meet?"  
She made a barely perceptible nod and whispered, "For the money," and her voice cracked. "Clare was in the hospital, working the ER. She'd bring me lunch and sit with Meg and me. Sometimes she would just give a hug and rub my back when I cried. I couldn't have made it through without Clare, but I was afraid Megan would be the one to pay for what we did. But if they thought I'd gotten the liver through Clare and she was cleared, they wouldn't need to kill her... Right?"  
Tim nodded, said grimly, "That's right. You said Moss used the name Kender?"  
"Uh huh," Mrs. Sullivan nodded vehemently, reaching for a Kleenex. "I'm sure of it. Just before I served the Cornish hens and stuffing."  
"Why is your husband's main competitor getting a home-cooked meal from your kitchen, ma'am?" Raylan asked.  
"Oh, he and Graham are working on a merger, but it's very secret."  
Raylan pinched his lips and didn't look at Tim. "We need to talk to your husband."  
She looked to Tim briefly, "But he's sleeping. I shouldn't have even let you in, but Clare's here and I'm worried about her. But Graham-"  
"We think Graham paid Colin Stark to implicate Clare," Tim said bluntly. "Stark recanted his accusation, Clare was cleared, and Stark was dead the day after."  
"Graham would never-"  
"Shooters have come after Brian Sullivan and his family, plus the car bomb. Everyone involved with that business but your husband-who's having dinner parties with Morley's CEO-has been a target. We need to speak to him."  
"That's his brother, and his sister's girl!" she exclaimed. "I will not tolerate these attacks-where do you think you're going?"  
Tim had gotten up and was on the stairs by the time Raylan had picked up his hat to follow. Tim's gaze flicked between the doors before picking one on the left and saying, "Sullivan, I said we were gonna finish that conversation from earlier."

Clare woke up scared, cold and alone. Cold because she's balled the sheets and blankets up in her arms and she was naked. Alone because Tim had left.  
She could tell by the feel of the place he was long gone. And scared because she had that familiar twisting in the pit of her belly. She raced to the bathroom where they'd left her bag and she threw up.

Rachel had a damn good idea what the two jackasses, into whose hands she placed her life every day, were up to. She'd also like to not have to help clean it up. She gave them twenty minutes, then called Art.


	32. Chapter 32

A quick mouth rinse, jeans, Converse, and one of Tim's old Army tees later, Clare was stalking out to the van Tim had waved at earlier. "Ya'll wanna protect me like you're told?" she shouted, "I need to get to my uncle's place!" She pounded on the back doors.  
The door opened and she was so startled by their immediacy all she could think to say was, "Thanks."  
"Art says he's on his way," the younger Marshal said, nodding to his partner.  
Still on the phone, he said, "Turning down Archwood? We'll see you soon. She's out here."  
Archwood being a cross street about two hundred feet from where she was standing, Clare nodded her thanks and jogged to Art's approaching car.  
"Get in!" Art said sternly, if unnecessarily. "I don't know to blame your boyfriend for being a moron or the hothead with him for being his guiding influence! When did you know he'd gone?"  
"Not until a few minutes ago when I woke up. I'd never have let him go. You must believe that, chief."  
He glanced over to her scared pale face and nodded, "That I do believe. And it's 'Art'."

Graham was as unexceptional as ever. Dressed in stereotypical blue-striped pajamas, he rolled over, squinted, made a 'WTF' face, and turned back to his nightstand, saying, "Hold on, Deputy. I need my glasses."  
"H-honey, I tried to st-stop them. I-I did," Lou-Anne stammered, coming up behind them.  
"It's fine, dear," Graham said in an exasperated tone. "Just let me talk to the Marshals. Alone."  
"By all means, Graham, the fewer witnesses the better," Tim quipped, hand on his sidearm.  
"Winona would have shot me with my own gun, if I'd ever talked to her like that," Raylan whispered to Tim, then said to Graham, "Clare shot a gunman this evening, Mr. Sullivan. Like our colleague, Deputy Brooks, shot a gunman this evening. Now, some would consider, since everyone who has come after your niece is dead, that trying to kill her like this is a bad idea."  
"Might be more practical to just call off the hit until things have died down and wait for Clare to get comfortable. Is that what you're suggesting?" Graham shot back, watching Tim.  
Tim's mirthless smile in response was enough to make Raylan nervous. Graham Sullivan clearly lacked that modicum of self-preservation.

Chief Deputy Art Mullen didn't say another word as he pulled away with Tim's girlfriend. He didn't say a word and was far too pissed to be grateful she didn't say anything either. They'd made it two streets and a red light before he muttered, "He _used to be_ pretty reliable for staying out of trouble."  
"Didn't break your deputy on purpose," Clare said dryly, eyes front.  
Art turned at that, "You're gonna quip while a man that loves you is picking a fight with a psycho on your behalf?"  
"What else would you like me to do? You're not driving fast enough for anything practical," she snapped. "Light's green."  
He shifted and sped towards his boys. "He dragged Raylan into this, too. Like Raylan doesn't have enough of his own shit."  
"I get the point. Tim's being reckless and putting others in danger and it's all my fault. Is dwelling on that making it better?"  
Art heaved a tired sigh, "It's not your fault. It's just bad enough I got one cowboy going off half-cocked in my office. I don't need Tim doing it, too. He's a good kid and a good Marshal. I don't want him to go that way."  
"I love him, Art. Believe me, he and I will discuss whatever decision-making-paradigm led to this."  
"Like discussing whatever decision-making-paradigm led to you turning fugitive, I reckon," he muttered, pulling up behind the SUV in Graham's driveway, but Clare was already out the car.  
She let herself in, leaving the door open behind her for Art, and raced up the stairs.

"I wouldn't consider that a 'suggestion' as much of a 'should-have-done'," Raylan pointed out. "But perhaps it is time to pull out. Tony Kender's dead. I don't think any names he gave you today will be any better than the last few DOAs you've sent after your family, Graham," Raylan was saying as Art caught up to Clare and Lou-Anne at the door.  
She looked at him and he nodded, mouthing, "Wait for it." He pulled out his cell phone and looked for the little recording app Leslie had installed on it.  
Graham went on smugly, "I have no idea what you're referring to, Deputy, but I assure I will become a problem if necessary. Your partner tackling me in my office, slandering me. This is vile behavior. Lawsuit behavior."  
Art scowled, Lou-Ann looked alarmed, and Clare just rolled her eyes.  
Tim said, "If I were you I'd be less concerned about filing lawsuits that the fact that Wynn Duffy's not fond of you killing someone he still had a use for. Some might even say, he's 'put out'. I think you'd rather deal with us than him, but if you want to push that, it's fine. But you're not gonna go after Clare and Brian anymore."  
"Assuming it was me. Is that it? One dinner with the charismatic Edgar Moss and I'm the villain? My brother and my sister's daughter, my victims?" he sneered.

"Moss is charismatic?" Raylan asked, digressing.

"Like Ted Bundy," Tim agreed.

"Ah, makes sense now."

"Deputies—"  
"No, we think you and Moss are working together," Tim chirped, back on topic, "That little merger deal, Lou-Anne was supposed to keep quiet about. The way she was supposed to keep quiet about ya'll paying for Megan's liver, giving you the idea to frame Clare when the authorities stumbled on the racket."  
"We know that's how you met Colin Stark." Raylan continued, keeping an eye on Tim, "Must have felt meant to be, you had the Dixie Mafia installing your security systems. You had corruption at Clare's hospital. You could use the feds to get rid of her and no one would be the wiser." He pursed his lips, looking at Tim, "Seems pretty neat and clean, thinking about it."  
"She wasn't supposed to run though, was she?" Tim asked slyly.  
Art rolled his eyes out in the hall and shot a pious Clare a dirty look.  
"No, but the Marshal chasing her when she ran wasn't supposed to fall in love with her either, so maybe it's all _your_ fault it went sideways, Deputy Gutterson," Graham shot back. "Harassing your fugitive's family trying to clear her name, does she know? How you used to stalk around the office with Brian learning exactly what Clare's role was? Or, how you looked into every little crevice of the case against Stark? I can't imagine how that little firebombing at her apartment bothered you."  
"Did bother me. A lot," Tim confessed. "But how else were you gonna leave that evidence-shaped absence in her life? Case against her wouldn't have gotten nearly as far if her own computer hadn't been destroyed... Like he said, seems a solid plan."  
Lou-Anne had turned and was watching Clare watch Art for a signal and listen to her uncle confess his attempts to ruin her life. Art still had his phone out. Neither Art nor Clare paid any attention when Lou-Anne trailed back down the stairs silently.


	33. Chapter 33

He really did it. Her husband really did all of those horrible things, they're accusing him of. To Clare, to his brother, to Brian's children, he wasn't even denying it.

Lou-Anne knew her husband, not as well as she would have thought an hour ago, but that man couldn't lie to her, she knew him that well. She knew how he lied too. And his current "Oh, these accusations are ridiculous" bullshit was just that. Bullshit.

She'd lived her life for him. Not had children because he said it'd be unfair. Had held his stupid cocktail parties, had hosted his stupid corporate luncheons. Her whole life, the past thirty-five of her fifty-six years, was all for him.

Lou-Anne's gaze went red.

***  
"At least until Stark decided he wanted out," Raylan pointed out.  
"Of course, then Stark had to die," Tim agreed, "All it took was a bed sheet."  
"Which happens all the time in prison… stupid to bring one though. Kender may have been useful but that stunt did put a bit of time limit on him," Raylan replied.  
"To Duffy's chagrin…"  
"If you two are done with your stand-up," Graham cut in with his best board-room roar.  
Clare couldn't fight the laughter building in her throat. She slapped her hand over her mouth too late.  
Graham came around his bed as Raylan turned to the door. Tim just stared at the ceiling, rolling his eyes.  
She stepped in before anyone could see Art. Smiling sheepishly, she shrugged and said, "Sorry. I never could hear that tone of voice with a straight face."  
"I recall…vividly," Graham glowered. "Has…_your friend_ told you his suspicions? They're outrageous."  
"Not so much," she shrugged. "Brian compromised the safe house to you. Only you. And an hour later, people are running around shooting at us. Pretty sloppy work, really."  
"You actually _think_ I'd try to kill you," he tried to seem offended. Hell, maybe part of him was.  
Clare snorted, "I think you'd kill someone over a good parking space, if you weren't worried about getting your suit dirty."  
Graham opened and closed his mouth like a fish.  
"You aren't gonna come after Clare and Brian anymore," Tim repeated. "And this can go away and keep your suits clean."  
"Because you have no evidence I'm involved." He turned to Clare, looking injured, "You really let this... Marshal lead you to believe I'd hurt you?"  
"You really think I'd let anyone _'lead'_ my thought processes?"  
Tim pressed his lips together.  
"If I could talk to my niece _alone,_ Deputies?"  
"No," Tim spat, "You can't be-"  
Clare put her hand on Tim's free arm, "No, Graham. You want to explain yourself, you can do it in front of Tim and Raylan."  
His eyes narrowed, and Graham said softly, almost gently, "You're as stupid as your mother sometimes."  
"There are worse things," she responded with similar softness.

***  
Graham was never one for the outdoors, but this was Kentucky and there were certain things expected. Like hunting.

Graham had always complained about having to go hunting with the other men, whether from his golf club, his alumni club, or with his father. Graham had always hated the mere idea of waking up early, wandering out in the cold, and watching in silence for a Bambi to shoot.

But Graham respected the institution of hunting, so he had a rifle. A Browning X-Bolt Feather Trigger, barely used, just sat on a rack in his office, the rounds in the safe behind his desk. Just waiting to be used.

Lou-Anne smirked, "Production for use." The line from "His Girl Friday" rang in her head, she'd shaken her head at the twisting of the shooter in that film. But now, as that stupid little mantra of Cary Grant's and Rosalind Russell's rang in her head, she wanted to laugh. Goddamn her husband, but Lou-Anne needed a laugh right now. She started heading up the stairs with the loaded X-Bolt.

***  
The door slammed into the wall behind it, making everyone jump and Tim and Raylan reach for their side-arms. Graham's eyes widened in disbelief. Or maybe it was just surprise at his meek wife leading Chief Deputy Mullen into his bedroom at two in the morning with a hunting rifle.  
"What the hell, Lou-Anne!"  
"Mrs. Sullivan-" Raylan started, his eyes on a very annoyed Art.

Tim pulled his Glock and stepped in front of Clare, "Mrs. Sullivan-"  
"Everybody, shut up!" Lou-Anne shouted with her hands shaking. "I want to know what the hell is going on in my home! No one's told me anything and I've given _everything_ for this family!"  
"Graham paid Colin Stark to name me to the feds with the transplant misinformation deal. Then offered a few grand to get me killed before trial," Clare volunteered.  
Tim and Raylan both shot her a look, but she just shrugged.  
"Thank you, Clare. Lovely to see you again, dear," Lou-Anne said, aiming the rifle at her husband.  
"You, too," Clare said, tugging Tim further out of Lou-Anne's rifle's range.  
"Is that true, Graham? Did you try to kill her and Brian?" Lou-Anne asked like she hadn't been listening outside the door. Like she hadn't her heard rotten excuse for a spouse lying in the hall. "I know it's been hard for you, sharing the business with them. But it was doing so well, when Clare came up here..." Lou-Anne shook her head in confusion at him while the rest of the room exchanged glances. "You _hated_ dealing with her brothers-"  
"Most do," Clare muttered under her breath.  
"Have you not had enough gunplay today?" Tim asked her, grumbling.  
"She's not pointing it at us. Huge difference. Lou-Anne's cool."  
"Really?"  
"I'll probably throw up again later, if that makes you feel better."  
"Oddly enough-"  
"If ya'll would like to leave my husband and me to discuss this," Lou-Anne said calmly, "It really is a family matter."  
Clare started tugging Tim to the door, Art smirked and said, "That is an excellent point, Mrs. Sullivan. Raylan."  
Art started toward the door, Raylan took half a step to follow before Graham stammered, "Now, wait one moment. Clare's kin-"  
"And you tried to frame her and, _oh yeah,_ kill her anyway. What kind of man did I marry, Graham? What kind of man did I spend the last _thirty-five years with_?" Lou-Anne was shrieking by the end of it.  
"And so's that damned little Marshal, by that principle, so they've got to stay, Lou-Anne," Graham rationalized, approaching the door way and Lou-Anne.  
"You stay away from her, Graham," Clare warned watching him edge towards his wife. "Killed one man today. You think I won't help her with your corpse, you're crazy." Tim opted for a brief moment of ceiling exploration before eyeing Graham again.  
Graham had stopped before Clare was halfway through talking and he was looking at her like she was the Anti-Christ, "You sure you should be saying that in front of your Marshal friends?"  
Lou-Anne waved the end of her rifle at Graham's face as Art said, "I didn't hear anything. Did you, Raylan?"  
"I heard a dirt-bag dodge his wife's questions, but that's about it."  
Tim looked at them appreciatively. "Graham, either you confess to us or you confess to her. It's real simple."  
Lou-Anne smirked at her husband and said with deceptive calm, "No, Deputy Gutterson. He's doing both, there's no 'or', Graham. You tell _me _what the hell we've been doing for, I don't know, our _entire _marriage!"  
Clare started tugging Tim back out of the room and he resisted. While they were exchanging glares at his resistance, Graham took the opportunity to step closer to Lou-Anne and the dresser next to Tim and Clare. "You know, Chief, I don't think anything happening to me under your nose would reflect well on your office," Graham took the opportunity of Art and Raylan looking at each other with near-guilt to take another step to the dresser.  
Clare's eyes flicked between Graham and the dresser he was now within lunging distance of, and Tim kept his eyes on Lou-Anne's rifle.  
"Tell me, Graham! You tell me what you were doing framing _Clare_? She had nothing to do with Megan's transplant!"  
"Yeah, Graham," Tim said, "You tell her."  
"Lou-Anne-"  
"Stop saying my damn name and answer the fucking question!" Lou-Anne was still shouting.  
"Mrs. Sullivan," Art started, deciding it probably would be unwanted paperwork if Graham was hurt with his Marshals and him in the room, even if he was a cockroach, and distracting Lou-Anne and her rifle in the process.  
Graham went for the dresser, scrambling through a drawer as Tim pointed his Glock at him, saying, "Put your hands up, Sullivan. Over your head, thumbs out."  
Graham's hands came up with a Sig Sauer P232, pointing at Tim's head. At least for the brief millisecond before he swung the gun at Lou-Anne.  
Lou-Anne, having had the good sense to come into her bedroom with the rifle first, also had the good sense to fire first.  
Unfortunately for her, the shot was wild, hitting their headboard. Art snatched the rifle from her hands as Graham aimed and Raylan pulled and aimed at Graham.  
"I don't pull unless I'm gonna shoot, Graham."  
Graham's hand waivered, "I know who killed Tony Kender and why."  
"You want a make a deal now? Is that it?" Tim asked incredulously.  
"Edgar Moss was talking about Kender at dinner. I told you all that," Lou-Anne said, back against the doorjamb, eyes shooting daggers at her husband.  
"Lou-Anne!"  
"You're trying to kill your family! What loyalty are you expecting from your _'wife_,_' _asshole?"  
Art did his eyebrow thing at Graham, "This is true."

"It's a fair point. C'mon, Lou-Anne," Clare said from behind Tim, "We'll get some coffee and discuss how we're going to make Moss's life miserable." She slipped an arm around Lou-Anne's quivering shoulders and pulled her into the hall and down the stairs, out of Graham's line of fire.  
"You want to make a deal about Kender's death? You got to put that down," Art said.  
Graham pondered it, asked, "How'd he die?"  
"Kender? Strung up to his ceiling fan. Like Stark's suicide except for the groceries in his car."  
"Like Kender had done with Stark? Huh," Graham moved his gun hand towards the Marshals slowly. Then he put it to his head a lot quicker.  
"Graham-"  
"I won't go out like that," he said and fired.

Clare squeezed Lou-Anne's hand after the shot, whether in fear for Tim or sympathy with Lou-Anne's new widow status, she didn't know.  
Tim was the first down the stairs, and Clare could breathe again. He shook his head slightly, meaning Graham, and Clare leant her head on Lou-Anne's shoulder and rubbed her back, saying whatever soothing phrases crossed her mind.  
Tim stayed out of the kitchen, calling Rachel to update her on Graham and that he'd be visiting Duffy again in the morning.

Lou-Anne wasn't letting go of Clare's hand. Clare didn't seem bothered by that white-knuckle grip, but Tim wanted to sweep her back to his place. So he took the opportunity to make a phone call, "Hey, Elizabeth…It's your brother."


	34. Chapter 34

"Hey, kiddo," no matter how old he was, no matter what training he'd had, no matter how many kills he had, to Elizabeth he was always 'kiddo'. "What's up?"  
He rolled his eyes at her over the phone, "Who has Grandma's engagement ring?"  
"You meet a girl? And you haven't mentioned her?" Tim could _hear_ her eyebrows.  
"It's been a bit quick? Who has the ring?"  
"It's been how quick, kiddo?"  
"A few days and three years, alright? Who has it?"  
"You've had the same girl for three years and I haven't heard about her?"  
"No. We met for the first time three years ago, everything else has only been the last few days. Are you gonna answer my question?"  
"Don't think you might be rushing things a, I don't know, a lot? Or are you Billy Crystal?"  
"Huh. Is someone 'blaving'?"  
"Wrong movie, kiddo. I thought we taught you chick flicks better than that. 'When Harry Met Sally.' Billy meets Meg Ryan and they hate each other. They meet again, mild dislike, then they become friends. Then they have sex and realize they ruined their friendship. Then they realize they're in love."  
Tim squeezed his eyes shut. God help him when she and Clare met. "More of a 'I chased her through the woods because she was a fugitive-"  
"What? She's a criminal?"  
"No, falsely accused," Tim continued at speed, "Then she saved my ass despite my being a Marshal. Then she gets away and I spend the next few years catching hell for supposedly sleeping with her then letting her go."  
"Did you? Sleep with her?"  
"No. And I fuckin' hate that question."  
"Well, you are asking about a diamond for her. How have I not heard of this girl? Tell me about these last few days."  
"She was cleared. I went to bring her back to put her in protective custody-"  
"So, you knew where she was? Why didn't you just _catch_ her?" Elizabeth asked smugly.  
"No evidence to warrant being sent there... Her name's Clare. She's a doctor. God help me, but I think you'd like her. She's insufferable, _too._"  
"You do love insufferable women," she agreed perkily. "So, the last few days you and she have been after each other like rabbits because she's not a fugitive and hormones have led you to believe you and she should get married. Ok."  
Tim was feeling a familiar throb at one temple, "Sure, yeah. That's it. Ya sussed it out. Except protective custody isn't really suitable to the whole 'rabbit' thing, but I am planning on it later. Who has the ring?"  
Elizabeth took her time answering, "Mom."  
"Fuck. I was sort of hoping you had it."  
"Would you like me to get it for you, Tim?"  
"Seriously?" She was offering, no less. He didn't have to play the 'I'm-an-American-hero-AND-your-baby-brother' card. "Have you just had a _really_ good day? Or are you angling for something?"  
"Actually, now that you're observing regular social norms, I had a _wonderful_ day. That band I was playing with? They got a contract and I get to play on the album. I can bring the ring when I go meet this Clare of yours."  
"Congrats." Tim racked his brain to when Elizabeth said she had gone back to being a guitarist. Nothing. Of course, Elizabeth had a new career every couple of months or so since her divorce from The Lawyer, it may have just slipped her mind to tell him. "You're ok with my giving her the ring, right?"  
"I haven't been so turned off by the male species to need it myself yet. So, yes, by all means, it's a waste of a good number of carats not to give it to her."  
"But you still want to meet her first?"  
"I'm all for making new mistakes, and marriage would be new to you. But... I didn't introduce anyone to The Lawyer before I married him. _And_ it would also be a waste not to learn from other's mistakes when possible, Tim," Elizabeth said gently. "You afraid me and Mom won't like her?"  
"No. I'm afraid you'll all go shopping together and she'll have seen too many of my baby pictures to ever sleep with me again, to be honest."  
Elizabeth roared with laughter on the other end of the line, "I miss you, kiddo. You be careful."  
"Yeah. Yeah, love you."  
"Love you, too, kiddo."  
He hung up smiling. Yeah, they were going shopping, probably with little Izzie, too. Shi-it.

Lou-Anne was amazingly calm after being told about Graham's suicide. There was a brief comment about cowardice that got Clare's lips pressed together, but all in all, any reaction to it was going to be severely delayed. She sent Clare home with Tim, when he came back, telling him, "Clare would only come back tomorrow anyway. Get her some sleep now."  
"Why do people pretend I can't hear them?" Clare asked a passing scene tech during the exchange.  
"She's stubborn that way," Lou-Anne continued in fairly complete denial that it was her husband in the body bag.  
"Insufferable, yes, I'm noticing that," Tim said with glance at her.  
Clare made a face at him. "You call if you need anything. Anything at all," she hugged her aunt.  
"I am so sorry, baby," Lou-Anne whispered. "I was so afraid that if I told them I knew you didn't know about it, we'd lose Megan's liver."  
Clare nodded, pulling back to ask, "You want me to tell Gramps and Gran? About Graham."  
Lou-Anne seemed dumbfounded for a moment. "Someone will have to, I suppose, but, Clare-"  
"I haven't seen them yet. It'll save me from having to make conversation," Clare said it breezily, but Tim caught her hand and she squeezed his. "We were gonna swing by there tomorrow anyway. Visit the bike, catch hell, check if Graham had always been a resentful ass, y'know Sullivan family crap."  
"You sound like your father, Clare," Lou-Anne said.  
Clare smiled and wiggled her brows.  
"Edgar Moss needs to be told, too," Tim pointed out, wondering if that should happen before or after they tell Duffy.  
"We could stop and do that on the way back to your place?" Clare asked, catching herself from calling it home. It wasn't her home, she was living out of a suitcase and shopping bags for goodness' sake.  
Tim shot her a look from under his lashes, "We could. Maybe."  
"Maybe?"  
"I want to talk it over with Art and Raylan about the notifications," he said, "But first I want to go home with you and forget everyone else exists." He kissed Clare's forehead and she leaned into him, arms wrapping his waist.  
"You got out of bed first, slick. I was just following your lead."  
"Take her home, Deputy," Lou-Anne said with a pat on Clare's back and a squeeze of Tim's forearm.  
After she'd walked off Tim whispered in Clare's ear, "I think she likes me."  
"I like you," she said before kissing him.  
"Better do more'n that," he muttered leaning into the kiss. "Let me talk to Art, then I'll take you home."

Clare watched him with Art, wrapping her arms tight around her torso, as Raylan came up to her. "There was nothing we could do. Graham..."  
"Did he just not see another way out?" Clare swallowed. "Was he...scared of something?"  
"He asked about Stark and Kender's deaths. They were both hanged and someone- Kender in Stark's case- made it look like suicide," Raylan answered.  
She nodded.  
"Tomorrow?"  
"Supposed to see my grandparents. We were going to tell them about Graham anyway, but... Tim wanted to talk to you about who's getting told when, I want to be there for Moss."

"I don't think Tim wants you there."

Her look let him know exactly how Clare felt about Tim's feeling on that subject.

"Put it this way: I know Tim doesn't want you there," Raylan said gently. "You could give him a break."

"The way he gave me one when I woke up alone tonight?" she spat, looking over at Tim and Art, trying to glare.

"He did it because he's in love with you. He's trying to protect you. It's what we're wired to do, rescue our women," Raylan said softly.

"I know," she whispered, "I just wish…I don't know what I wish. I just… I was scared when he was gone." She took a deep breath as Tim walked back over. "We telling Moss?"

He nodded, slipping an arm around her shoulders, "Tomorrow. Now, we go home." To Raylan he said, "Art'll take you to the hotel, he said." He stuck his hand out, "Thanks."

"Turnabout's gonna be bitch," Raylan said, taking his hand.

"Harlan usually is."

Raylan smirked, turned to Clare, "Your boyfriend's a dick."

"I know," she smiled, but she held on to him anyway, and they walked back to his SUV.

"So, you had to chase me down at Graham's and you brought Art," Tim was dwelling on that tidbit. A lot.

Clare picked up her head, previously resting on his naked chest, to look at him so he could see her roll her eyes at him, "How did I bring Art, when he was driving?"

"Still. Art."

"You rush out of bed with me to threaten my uncle and I'm supposed to catch crap because you got caught borrowing Raylan's cowboy hat? Is that how you see this going?" She tried to rest her head on her fist, but her now-purple bruise was in the way. "Just had to do it, didn't you?"

He gaped, then looked genuinely offended, "I did not borrow his hat. I brought him, so he could use his hat and I wouldn't have to."

"Put that much thought into it, huh?"

"So much thought," he let his fingers run over her face, "I wasn't going to kill him."

"Just let Raylan kill him?'

"It's not personal if Raylan kills him. It's personal if I kill him. Hell, it's murder if I'd killed him."

Clare's face softened, she moved to kiss him, "Oh, baby." She kissed him, nibbling at his lips, sucking at his tongue. He rolled her onto her back and came up for air.

"Do I want to know why my admitting near-murder turns you on?"

She grinned up at him, all sparkles and undisguised glee, "You couldn't kill him."

"I kill people for a living. I'm a sniper, for Chrissakes. I didn't want to _murder_ him…there's a difference," Tim leant back, pulling her up with him, and rubbed his face. "I wanted to hurt him. Make him pay, and I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror. Be able to… be here in the world."

"You brought Raylan to save you from yourself."

"Yup, but Graham's dead anyway. And Moss is involved and we have no way to go after him for it," Tim sighed. "Y'know we were fooling around. I'd like to go back to that."

"So demanding," Clare shook her head as his hand slipped under the Army t-shirt she still wore. She pulled it off and tossed it somewhere behind her. "Do I get to be on top this time?"

"Well, you did say I wasn't being creative having you on your back all the time," he said, pulling her so she was straddling him.

"Protection?"

He reached into a nightstand drawer and passed her a condom.

"And are you going to bitch about how this is used?"

"Probably not," he slid lower on his pillows.

"Probably?"

"If you take much longer with that, I'm going to have you on your back again."

"Is that a threat, Deputy?" Clare leaned close to his mouth. "Are you going to make good on it?"

He kissed her silly and flipped her before she could catch her breath. They came up laughing and he started kissing her throat softly, working his way down as she ruffled his hair. "Clare?"

"Yeah, babe?"  
He picked his head up from between her breasts, looking more vulnerable than she'd seen him, "Make the world go away?"

"Anytime." She pushed him onto his back and straddled him again, kissing him wetly as her hand tugged his erection. She kept her mouth on his throat as she rolled the condom on him, one eye half focused on the task.

Tim looked up at her as she teased herself with the tip of his penis, not quite lowering herself on him yet, back arched in anticipation. His hands gripping her hips as they watched each other. He bucked into her finally, through with the teasing. Clare ground herself into him as his fingers bruised her with each thrust. "Like this? Ba-," her head tossed back, as she got close to her climax, "Tim, please. Harder. Oh, there. There," she squeezed her muscles around him, leaning to brace herself on the headboard. "There. C'mon, baby. Ther-"

Tim tried to keep his eyes on her, moaning and riding him. He tried to focus on her tits bouncing before him, to distract him from her tightening wetness. But he lost it and exploded beneath her.

He didn't come before she did, but she was half expecting him to, couldn't have faulted him for it if he had. She gasped as she rolled next to him, tossing the condom in the wastebasket. "Where's the world, babe?"

"What world?" He kissed her head, pulling her close.

"You gonna be here when I wake up?"

"I promise," he murmured, already dozing. His first promise, so she nestled closer and drifted off.


	35. Chapter 35

Rachel was waiting for Raylan when Art dropped him off. "How'd it go?"  
"Well, Art didn't jeopardize anything but I know I, and Tim too probably, would have appreciated knowing you'd called him before Clare walked in," he griped, sitting next to her.  
"Clare was there?"  
"Art grabbed her on his way." Raylan leant forward in his seat, hands on his knees, and whispered, "Graham shot himself. He asked how Kender died, asked what he didn't already _know_ about the details from Stark's death, and said he wasn't going out that way."  
Rachel pulled one of his hands to hold in both of hers, squeezing it, she asked, "You gonna be ok?"  
Raylan looked at their hands, "Not the first time I've seen it, Rach." But he didn't take his hand back.  
"Raylan. We don't have to talk about it, but..."  
"Yeah, yeah. I know you're there."  
"Do you also know that you're about to go get me a cappuccino to make up for running out with Tim?"  
He smirked at her, "No. I didn't know that. Would you like a pastry as well?"

Raylan gave Rachel the synopsis of Graham's death and Lou-Anne's...whatever over Krispy Kremes and Raylan's vanilla ice cream habit. "She handles herself well."  
"Who?" Raylan asked with a spoon in his mouth.  
"Clare. Do you eat any other flavors?"  
"Vanilla's the best. Yeah, Clare's a tough chick. Have to be, her family. Psychos."  
Rachel narrowed her eyes, "Izzie said Tim mentioned diamonds the other day."  
Raylan's latest swallow lacked the dignity and grace of previous accomplishments. "Diamonds?"  
Rachel nodded, "I think I like her."  
"Hm. Tim...married," Raylan pondered. "I actually could see that. Did I tell you what they said to each other when she said she wanted to be bait?"  
"That she'd live on a morgue slab _quietly_, yeah, you mentioned," she answered dryly.  
"They _deserve_ each other."  
Rachel tried not to smile, but Raylan seemed to have perked up.

* * *

Tim was up by 6:20. Clare was still burrowed under the covers by the time he'd finished his run and shower at 7:30 when he bounced onto his bed, disturbing her.  
Her response: pull the covers over her head and mutter, "I don't wanna see them. They're mean."  
"We need to tell them about Graham," he said gently. "And Raylan was saying he'd tell Duffy while we tell Moss. You do still want to be there for Moss, right?" Clare poked her head out, "I want to see his head _explode_. How bad's my hair?"  
Given that her long dark hair was in tangled ropes twisting in more directions than there were compass points, Tim pressed his lips together.  
"That bad, huh?"  
Dressed in a sweater and jeans that were entirely her own, and with her hair tamed, Clare braved Tim's kitchen. Tim passed her a cup of coffee as she came in and asked, "So, what do we do first?"  
"Raylan probably wants a nap, so we can hit your grandparents, then we'll visit Moss while Raylan sees Duffy," Tim pulled out a cereal box and a spoiled container of milk. Looking at it and Clare's "trying-not-to-laugh" expression, "We can swing by an Ihop, too."  
She peeked around him to look in his fridge. "Do you even know how to grocery shop? This milk's dated last year?!"  
"_December_ of last year. It's only February," he said defensively, "Besides, those dates-"  
"They're just guidelines?" she finished cheekily.  
"Arbitrary guidelines, " he corrected, leaning in for a kiss. She deepened it and he reacted by pushing her back and boosting her up on the counter.  
"I did just get dressed," she said, lips migrating along his throat.  
"And you can do it again," Tim said before running the tip of his tongue along the visible edge of the scar, his hands sliding her sweater up with no resistance.  
Clare pulled his Henley over his head and tossed it in the area of his living room, "Are we defining this as a flat surface?"  
"Unless you have a table fetish I should know about?"  
"Pretty sure you know about it already," she said starting on his zipper.  
He was already working her jeans and panties out of his way, "And if I want to fuck you against a wall?" Tim moved his mouth to her already pebbled nipples and sucked it between his teeth as his fingers manhandled her clitoris.  
"I think we could arrange that," she moaned, kicking her jeans from her ankles to wrap her legs around him. "Now."  
"Now?" he teased, slipping a finger into her as she bucked.  
Her reaction was to run the tip of her thumb over the beading tip of his penis and drag her nails down his scrotum.  
He responded by taking her mouth. Fucking it as roughly with his tongue as he was going to fuck the rest of her, Tim pulled her off the counter and pressed her back against his woefully inadequate fridge and thrust into her.  
Clare's nails dug into his shoulders as he kept her pinned between him and the refrigerator. "Har-...there... Tim... Oh," she couldn't get a full word out as he had apparently memorized just how she liked it. She tightened herself trying to slow him as much as come herself as he kept up his frantic pace. She came gasping and moaning his name and God's, before he did.  
Finally, gasping, Tim stumbled back to a chair, still inside Clare, and held her to his chest. "So, yeah. I talked about soundproofing..."  
Picking up her head against her will, Clare made eye contact and scowled, "Is sex with you always like that?"  
"Well, in my personal experience..."  
She swatted his shoulder with a limp hand, "You screw my brains out and you don't even have any food here... Brute...Where are my clothes?"  
"'Over there, over there, and up there.'"

Rachel finally let Raylan doze off when the twins were up and watching cartoons and plowing through the remaining pastries and juice. She called Art when Gretchen woke up to supervise the boys. "So, heard about the family drama last night."  
"Yep. That's a great family. I'm anticipating the History channel special any day now. So, how're your Sullivans?"  
"I'm not missing my Ruiz witnesses, if that's anything. Raylan's out for right now, but the kids seem pretty unfazed. Even Izzie, she handled walking over that body like a pro."  
"That's reassuring, given the family history," Art grumbled.  
"She's got a lot of Clare in her. They're close," Rachel defended.  
"Clare the fugitive," he snorted.  
"You like her. Don't lie."  
Art sighed, "I do. But give 'em a couple of weeks for the adrenaline to taper off, before they start sayin' 'I do's."

* * *

Post-pancakes, Clare was scowling like a six-year-old. Sitting in the passenger seat with her arms folded, she stared out at her grandparents' sprawling ranch, lips pursed.  
"You gonna move?"  
"Eventually," Tim didn't quite grasp how she said it without moving her lips but was nonetheless amused.  
"Your bike's in there," he coaxed.  
"Allegedly. They _lie_."  
"Clare... You know I love you, right?"  
She gave a jerky nod, gaze unwavering.  
"Clare?... Babe?"  
She turned to glare at him finally.  
He gave his most beatific smile, "Grow up." He got out and started up to the house.  
She waited until he was behind a couple of pines before she let her grudging smile show, "Asshole."

Tim had his hands in his pockets at the door and was waiting for Clare when Mrs. Joyce Sullivan answered the door, "Deputy... Gutterson, correct?" she said in her well-modulated English.  
"Yes, Mrs. Sullivan. Is Clare's bike all right?" Tim continued his beatific smile, a bit less sarcastic this time.  
Her well stretched, Botoxed, and pinned face spared little expression, but Tim heard Clare snicker behind him, so he knew he hit a mark. "Gran."  
"Hello, Clare," Joyce stepped back allowing Tim in and giving Clare an uncomfortably effusive hug. "Welcome home, dear."  
Clare's back stayed stiff as she followed her grandmother, staying far enough back to whisper, "Notice she said nothing about my bike."  
Tim took her hand and kissed it, whispering, "Breathe. These relatives_ aren't_ trying to kill you."  
"Not efficiently anyhow. Graham had to come from _somewhere_," Clare muttered back.  
He squeezed her hand, not looking at her so he wouldn't laugh. "Mr. Sullivan-"  
"Joyce, the Marshal is holding Clare's hand," Michael Sullivan interrupted from his position at their dining room table, breakfast still on the table.  
Joyce turned and looked at their hands, "Oh. Well, this _is_ the same boy who kept pestering and saying that the case didn't make sense."  
"Were the one in the woods too, huh?" Michael's watery eyes narrowed on Tim.  
Tim caught Clare's gloating expression and tight lips and leant over to whisper, "Your family."  
"I believe I mentioned something about their efficiency," she said softly.  
"If _either_ of you would like to be slightly _considerate_ to those of us who were around _pre-internet _we need a little _volume_. It's _rude_ to whisper," Michael bellowed and Joyce winced.  
"But if we let you hear what I said then I'd be even _more_ rude," Clare pointed out, sitting across from the old man.  
He glared, sparing a fleeting glance to Tim before dismissing him. "You were a fugitive. This family has spent three years under the _shadow_ of your running."  
"Not the _shadow_ of the charges or accusations. Just the running after someone tried to kill me," Clare's eyebrow shot up.  
"Don't be dramatic, Clare," he dismissed her, "Joyce, where's the Business section?"  
"Gramps?" Clare said softly.  
Tim watched Michael take a deep, frustrated breath before he looked at his granddaughter again. "Yes, Clare?"  
Clare had taken the hand Tim wasn't keeping in a death grip and pulled the crew neck of her sweater down. "I'm being dramatic, old man?"  
Michael may have been corporate enough to not react, Joyce, however was not. Her hand flew to her mouth and her face went fuchsia as Tim's eyes went to her.  
"It can be fixed. You know people, you are a _doctor_, after all," Michael dismissed returning his eyes to Clare's dark ones.  
"Excuse me?" Tim hadn't realized he stood until Clare's thumb found a pressure point on his hand.  
"Tim, he's not worth it," Clare whispered, just for him.  
"He's getting there," he responded through gritted teeth.  
"You can't hit an eighty-year-old man, babe."  
"Not very _hard_, no."  
Clare pulled him back to his seat next to her and he sat, holding the old man's gaze while Joyce's flickered between the three of them at her end of the table. Clare let her eyes move to Joyce with sympathy, "Graham's dead."  
"What are you-" Michael blustered.  
Joyce started, and then began breathing heavily. Clare went to her guiding her head lower, murmuring, "Slow and steady, Gran. It'll be all right eventually."  
"He shot himself last night," Tim interrupted Michael, blunter than he would have been with strangers. "He paid Colin Stark to implicate Clare. Then he put a price on her head to try and keep her out of the way."  
"You try to market that load, Marshal, and I'll have your badge!"  
"The important part of all of that is that your oldest son killed himself last night," Clare said softly, eyes holding Michael's, her hands on Joyce's back.  
Michael's eyes moved between Tim and Clare, "Are you _fucking _my granddaughter, Marshal?"  
"Michael!" Joyce's head shot up.  
"Is that what this is about? You want to _impress_ the pretty girl out of your league so you bring her down to your level? Pretending her family's as corrupt as your own stock?"  
Tim was busy being confused by his left field accusation that he didn't see Clare get up and in Michael's face, "Apologize to him."  
"I will-"  
"Your oldest son is dead. Your daughter is _long_ dead. Your youngest son is snowed under trying to rectify every one of your's and Graham's asshole mistakes. And, _so help me God_, I will broadcast every rotten thing this family's done until the Sullivan name isn't worth the ink to print it if you don't apologize. _Now_."  
Tim tried to pull Clare out from being nose to nose with the bitter old bastard, "Clare..."  
"You wanna call my bluff, old man?" she whispered.  
"Clare! He's sorry, Marshal," Joyce said hollowly. "I won't lose Clare the way we lost Margaret, Michael. I won't watch that happen again. We won't let anything happen, Clare. Not to either of you. Nothing to your career, Marshal," she continued, adapting her matriarch tone to one powerful enough to get her husband's attention.  
Michael Sullivan was still battling with his half-Cajun granddaughter. A losing battle in Tim's opinion, but he was prejudiced. Michael smirked, "Well, Clare, I'll give you this, I like this badge more than the one your mother brought home."  
Clare went for him.  
Joyce only winced as Tim tried to hold Clare back, her legs cycling midair like Wile E. Coyote.

* * *

Art was having similar fun with Vasquez at the office.

"Graham Sullivan shot himself in front of three U.S. Marshals, Chief," Vasquez was saying, looking at the widow sitting in the conference room. "What the hell?"

"Yes, he shot himself—"

"At three in the morning. What the hell were you all doing there at three in the morning? And don't try to spin me the widow's line that 'she and her niece were just catching up'. I know better than to buy that one."

Art stifled a smile. Lou-Anne Sullivan had come up with her own version of the night, one that had nothing to do with Raylan and Tim barging in her home to accuse Graham of murder. She was one bitter lady, but was at least on the same side as his boys. "Lou-Anne Sullivan issued her statement. It's on record, do you really want to know more?"

David Vasquez looked at Art. He knew very well that Art was Chief Deputy for reasons beyond age and experience. Art knew when not to ask. "No, I don't want to know. I do want an assurance that this won't bite anyone on the ass, ok?"

"Ok."

Too easy. Vasquez narrowed his eyes, "If Gutterson is sleeping with Dr. Lidet—"

"Dr. Lidet refused protective custody yesterday evening after the gunmen at the safe house," Art pointed out. "The gunmen that came after Brian compromised the safe house to his brother. It's really pretty simple."

"Yeah," Vasquez agreed. "Very clear cut, if he were breathing the trial would be cut and dried."

"Yep."

"So, the next move?"

"Tim's going to inform Moss about the death the same time Raylan tells Duffy," Art said. "Duffy seemed a tad, Tim said, 'put-out,' so we're hoping…"

"The Dixie Mafia is going to clean up Edgar frickin' Moss for you? Ambitious. I didn't hear that."

"I didn't say it," Art corrected, "I was going to say that Moss may be willing to deal to get away from the Dixie Mafia."

"But either way—"

"We win, yeah."

"It's a good plan, Chief. In theory."


	36. Chapter 36

Joyce held Michael in his seat as Tim hauled Clare out to his car, manhandling her out to the garage, he fumed, "What the fuck was that? He's an old man!"  
"How the hell did I get away from you three years ago?" she asked, hand on the doorknob.  
Tim opened and closed his mouth, "Well, I couldn't sleep with you three years ago... So, I was a little more hesitant about putting my hands on you. Why?"  
"I went for him. And you stopped me. You could have stopped me then, did you let me go?" Clare held his forearm as he tried to turn away.  
He opened the garage door for her, saying, "I did stop you._ Twice_, remember?"  
"Yeah, but-"  
"Then I hit my head-wrestling with you, if you recall- and then we slept. You _snuck_ off while I was sleeping. There was no _'letting_' you then, but I'm not _'letting'_ you hurt an old man now."  
"You could have kept me with you then," Clare whispered.  
"Not without hurting you," he snapped, then sighed, "You'd just saved my ass and patched me up. I didn't want to hurt you, I just wanted to do my job and go home to hot shower." Tim's hand went to stroke her unmarked cheek, "Then we were rolling around and I _really_ didn't want to hurt you. Why are you asking now?"  
"Way you wrestled me out of that house. You could've ended all this a while ago, if you'd wanted, Tim."  
"Maybe I wasn't 'supposed to', isn't that what your Aunt Amy was saying?"  
Sighing, "You scare the hell out of me sometimes, Gutterson," she said, kissing him deeply, "I love you."  
"Are you ok?" he asked, fairly confused still.  
"My daddy's folks are bail enforcement, Tim. What'd you think that old man was implying, talking to you like that?" Clare wandered past a Benz and a Lexus to her motorcycle and assorted boxes.  
"He doesn't like me. Lots of people don't like me. It comes with the job, babe," Tim said, watching her fingers trail over the metal, "Doesn't explain why you were accusing me of 'letting you go'."  
"You caught me well enough in the dining room," she said absently, eyes on the bike. "You wrestled me out here-"  
"Forty feet of decking and pavement is not miles through the woods with the possibility of more gunmen, first of all. Secondly, I can manhandle you as foreplay now, while I couldn't touch you then. And, yes, I wanted to then and it mattered. Ok?"  
She looked up at him, "I can't promise I won't go for him again."  
"Which is oddly concerning, but not my point. At Amy's place, when I told what I put in my report you said you expected me not to protect you. Did my pulling you off him, really make you think I'd have let you go then?"  
"Honestly? A bit. I held my own a bit too well then, didn't I?"  
"I was wet, tired, and cold and you'd saved my ass."  
"After you'd taken out a gunman after me. We were pretty even at that point."  
"I shot you."  
"You _grazed_ me, sniper," she corrected. "I was a fugitive, you were trying to catch me-"  
"And you didn't have to pull me out of the Rockcastle. I had a fuckin' file on you, Clare. I knew Jackie. I never..."  
"You didn't think I was guilty then," Clare whispered, light dawning.  
Tim snorted, "Extorting money from people who needed organ transplants seemed a little out of character for someone who'd patch up the Marshals escorting her transport before taking the opportunity to run, babe." He scowled briefly, "But you'd have been safer with us the whole time."  
She stood and slipped her arms around his waist, and he pulled her close, "I'm sorry, Tim." She pressed her forehead to his chest, "I'm sor-"  
He kissed her head, sighing, "Shush. Your family makes mine look great. Have I thanked you for that yet?"  
"No," she said to his chest.  
He tilted her head up to look at him, "I love you. And your family is hilarious." He kissed her, "How's your dad's bike?"  
"Won't know until I start her... Wanna go for a ride?" she smiled up at him.

* * *

Raylan called midway through the ride, Tim tapping Clare's side to let her know to pull off the empty road. "Yeah, Ray?"  
"How far are you from Moss's?"  
"Far from Moss's?" Clare mouthed 'half an hour' at him. "Thirty minutes. You ready to tell Duffy?"  
"You _'ready'_ to bring your girl to Moss's?" Raylan shot back.  
Tim eyed Clare, "No, but see if she cares." Clare made a face at him. He kissed her, "Clare and I'll be over there soon. Good luck."  
"You too."  
Tim returned his phone to his pocket as Clare said, "Moss?"  
"Yep. You still want to come?" Off her look, "Figured."  
She smiled up at him and gestured at the bike, "You wanna drive it back?"  
His eyes moved between the Ducati and her face, "Are you screwing with me?"  
"It's about five minutes back if you take the next right. I'm not giving you much."  
"Enough," he slid on and she got on behind him, groping his abs a little.  
"Now, the clutch-"  
"I have ridden a motorcycle before, Clare," he started the bike and sped off with her giggling and holding on.

* * *

Raylan pulled up to Wynn's motor coach and sat in his car. It only took a few minutes before Mike came out and knocked on his window, "He'll see you now."  
"Kind of him," Raylan said dryly, getting out and repositioning his hat. Mike trailed after him as he entered the coach.  
"Deputy Givens, where's your partner?" Wynn smiled his best salesman smile and gestured for Raylan to sit.  
"He is telling Edgar Moss the same thing I'm about to tell you, Wynn."  
"And what are you telling me, Raylan?"  
"That Graham Sullivan shot himself in the head early this morning."  
"That is unfortunate, I assume? It would be hard to prosecute a man for his illegal practices if he's dead."  
"Our system still has no way to prosecute the dead yet," Raylan agreed. "What's _unfortunate_ is that Graham shot himself after hearing how Colin Stark and Tony Kender died... Graham seemed to believe that he'd be going out the same way as them if he didn't take himself out."  
"That is interesting... And _unfortunate_, of course," Wynn nodded. "So, are we saying the Sullivan family drama is over?"  
"We are saying Edgar Moss is our only remaining suspect in Tony Kender's death... You did seem fond of Tony when we saw each other last."  
"I did. _I am_." Wynn nodded, "Tony was very dear to me in his way."  
"Didn't owe you money anymore, either."  
"True," Wynn smiled, "Are you implying that I should be resentful of Mr. Moss on Mr. Kender's behalf?"  
"I'm not implying anything. Just notifying you about Graham Sullivan's suicide, is all," Raylan smiled mirthlessly, getting up to leave.  
"I do appreciate the notification, Raylan. I trust Deputy Gutterson is protecting Dr. Lidet zealously, should Moss make any attempts toward her?"  
Raylan paused, "Why are you asking about them?"  
"Information is always valuable in my line, Raylan. Much like knowing who and what to avoid."  
"You going to avoid Tim?" Raylan asked doubtfully.  
Wynn smiled, "Oh hell, Raylan, I _avoid_ you."  
"Maybe you just need your mustache back, Wynn. You were all about painting rooms new colors back when you had that," Raylan smirked, walking out.

* * *

Tim pulled up outside the wrought-iron gate of Edgar Moss's estate and Clare put her hand out, "Would you like something?"  
"I need to get a cellphone, until I go and do that though..."  
He passed his phone to her and she dialed a number from memory, biting her lip all the while. "Do we not to make this phone call?"  
"We aren't sure the number is right, it has been a few years," she said before saying into the phone, "Hello, I'm calling for Edgar Moss. This is Clare Lidet... I'm out front right now, hoping to surprise him... Thank you." She hung up and passed him his phone, "Housekeeper says she's opening it up now."  
The gate in front did begin to move as Tim eyed her, "You do need a phone."  
"And a car, apartment, computer. I got a list, it's just waiting until after I take my re-certification exams on Tuesday," Clare looked at the open gate, "Are we going in?"  
"Apartment?"  
"If I stay at your place much longer I'll paint it. Are we going in?"  
Tim drove in, parking in front of the Tudor style McMansion rather than pulling over to the stables that Moss was walking up from. "Deputy Gutterson and Clare, darling! What brings you both here today?"  
"Graham brings us here today, Edgar," Clare said, stepping close to Tim before Edgar could air-kiss her cheek.  
"He shot himself this morning," Tim said shortly.  
Edgar started, wide-eyed for a millisecond, before saying, "Perhaps we should discuss this inside." "Perhaps," Tim agreed, putting a proprietary hand on Clare's back, guiding her in ahead of Moss.  
Moss closed the doors behind them and motioned to the back of the house, "Would either of you like coffee or tea?" Moss offered, ever the gracious host.  
Clare and Tim exchanged glances before Tim shook his head and Clare said, "No. We're fine. Can we sit?"  
Moss gestured toward to table in his Country French kitchen and pulled out a seat for Clare.  
She accepted and Tim sat next to her, facing Moss and his cup of coffee. "You were saying about Graham?"  
"He shot himself around 3 this morning," Tim said. "After asking how Colin Stark and Tony Kender died. He seemed concerned that he might be going out the same way. By allegedly hanging himself. Do you know why he had this concern, Mr. Moss?"

Moss glanced at an expressionless Clare for a moment. "Why did you bring her to make these accusations?"

"Because I asked to be here, Edgar. I wanted to see your face when you denied everything. You are denying everything, right?" Clare said, Tim's hand on hers under the table to keep her from going over another one that day.

Edgar's eyebrows raised, he responded, "I'm hurt you think I would do anything to put you in harm's way, dear. I'm sorry you feel that way."

Tim's eyes flickered between Moss's and Clare's, as well as her budding rueful smile.

"You _really_ believe that, you son of a bitch," Clare's admiring tone goosed Tim's neck hair.

"Clare?"

"Of course, I believe that I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, Clare. I've always said I've been fond of you, haven't I?" Moss didn't spare a glance at him. "I do know your background, Clare."

"And having worked for your position rather than inheriting it…"

"I would have more respect for your father's background than your mother's family." Moss smiled, widely and genuinely, "Not that having more respect for what they taught you would be difficult."

Clare's fingers were numb as the wheels in her head squealed out of control. It wasn't _possible_ that he could have manipulated Graham to target her, was it? Wasn't _possible_ that he could have set it all in motion to get her out of the way. Not as he was saying how he _admired_ her—_**Shit**_.

"You knew I'd run if someone came at me," she whispered as Tim realized just what it was Moss wasn't denying.

Moss grinned, almost prideful. "Your father's kin chased runners. You know how they think and what mistakes they make. You were Belize within four months, safe and sound. Why didn't you stay there, Clare?"

"Felt wrong. It was…"

"Too easy," Moss finished for her softly. Finally glancing at Tim, he said, "Never counted on you though, Deputy."

"You won't get Graham's shares, Edgar. Even if you get away with this. They revert to Brian, my brothers, and I."

"Unless he already sold them to me." Off Clare's confused expression, Moss continued softly, "They were signed over when you returned. After Colin confessed that you weren't involved in falsifying the transplant records, Graham was... convinced that the deal would dissolve after you returned, so he signed them over to me then."

"You paid Colin Stark to come clean," Tim said. "You had him clear her name."

Graham extended his approving smile to Tim, "You're welcome, Deputy."


	37. Chapter 37

As Wynn watched Raylan get in his Town car and pull away, "Mike, can you get me my phone? It's charging."  
Mike passed him the phone, "Givens gonna be coming back by anytime soon?"  
"Maybe, maybe not," Wynn said, pulling up a number and dialing it, "Hello... Yes, it's been a long time... No, target is _not_ dating a federal marshal this time around... Edgar Moss... It's a _little_ personal... I'll see you in a bit, then. Thank you." He hung up and turned to Mike. "I think Marshal Givens is not our problem on this particular subject, Mike. That is what I think."

* * *

"I don't think money was a motivating factor for Mr. Stark, Deputy," Moss said gently, keeping his smile as Tim blinked his understanding of what Moss was implying.  
"Then what was, Mr. Moss-"  
"Naturally, Deputy Gutterson, I was unaware of anything of the sort. I had no idea Graham Sullivan would be either willing or able to sabotage his family as he appears to have done." Moss turned to Clare, "I didn't know the price on your head had increased until Deputy Gutterson told me. I _promise _you that, dear."  
He seemed so slimily sincere Tim had to consciously close his mouth.  
Clare just nodded faintly, "I actually believe that, Edgar. Thank you."  
"If that's all," Moss spread his hands generously, "Would you both like to stay for lunch? Marie makes a mean French dip."  
Tim swallowed, suppressed the fight or flight response Edgar Moss engendered to stand and say, "No, we need to get back to Lexington, Mr. Moss. Thank you anyway."  
Clare stood next to him, "Another time, Edgar. Thank you."  
Tim watched him take Clare's hand, as they walked out to his car, and squeeze, "Be safe, Clare."  
"And you."  
"Deputy. Take care of our girl."  
Tim bit his lip, "Good-bye, Mr. Moss." He got in the car watching Moss smile at him. Not smirk. Smile. Made his skin crawl, "He's just about the creepiest fucker I ever met."  
"I only met worse during my psych rotation," Clare smiled at him sunnily after he'd pulled out of the drive.  
"You're crazy, too," he pointed out.  
"I love you, too," she waited until they were at a stop before she stuck her tongue out at him. "What are we doing for lunch?"  
"Dunno." He swallowed, putting the car in gear again, "You serious? About painting my place?"  
"There is just so much beige, babe. I know they _say_ you can't go wrong with it but..."  
"Then we'll paint it." He turned onto the interstate into Lexington, saying softly, "I don't want to move out."  
"We've been together for three days, darlin'. There's not a price on my head anymore. 'Us' _without_ that threat is bound to be different than 'us' with it-"  
"We hardly met under ideal circumstances, Clare. We didn't see each other in flattering lights, we didn't spend that time idealizing one another," Tim started before she scoffed.  
She winced at his glance over, then said gently, reaching for his hand, "I've had three years in limbo to think about what I wanted. You. I loved you in those woods. I loved you when you arrested me while I was playin' Florence Nightingale."  
His turn to scoff, "So, I was lusting because you stitched me up not because you pulled me outta the drink and wrestled with me before pulling my own cuffs on me."  
"That turned you on?"  
"You turn me on," he grumbled, pulling into a parking lot. "What is this? Serious discussion day?"  
"Apparently. You started this one."  
"I don't want you to move out. I _like_ wakin' up with you. I like hearing you bitch about my fridge-"  
Clare unstrapped, leant over and kissed him, running her tongue along the inside of his lips before sucking on his bottom lip. Drawing back, she whispered, "My own place isn't leaving you, Tim. It's just not lettin' us move too quick, is all."  
"Then why does it feel like movin' backwards?" Tim unstrapped himself and started pushing her toward the backseat. "I want you to stay. _With me_."  
She pulled him back with her, stumbling around arm rests and the center compartment to lie back and unbuckle her belt before reaching for his. "Let me a have some time to think?"  
He let her undo his khakis and pulled her jeans down, "And while you're thinking?"  
"I'll be in your bed. Tim, I love you. I'm not _going_ anywhere. I just want to do whatever we can make sure we never _want_ to go anywhere," she leant back, kicking her pants off her feet to wrap them around his waist.  
He slipped his hand between her thighs, slipping his fingers into her as she moved with him. "I love you, Clare. I want you with me," he kissed her, moving to mount her, "Hell, I want to know if you're always gonna be this wet for me," he said to her lips and she chuckled, arching into his curling finger.  
"Dunno, babe. Certainly seems that way." She smiled up at him, "I've never had sex in a car before. Can you believe that?"  
He pulled one of her thighs up for a better angle, one foot braced on the ceiling, the other along the back of the seat, "Good."  
She dug her nails in his butt as he slammed into her, smiling and gasping with each thrust. "I-love-you-Tim," she rushed out when she could, "I-love-you-baby."  
Tim had to start remembering baseball as her muscles worked him. Remembered Basic as she moaned and whispered as she rode him. He came quicker than he had that morning, barely beating her orgasm. He pushed himself up after, to gasp out, "Clare, I want you to marry me."  
"Ok. Now?" she said between deep breaths.  
"What?"  
"Don't give me that look. You proposed to me," she pointed out from beneath him.  
"You said 'ok'."  
"You want somethin' more, I want a proposal that's not post-coital..." she pushed his hair back. "I love you, Tim, I mean that. And I'll marry you."  
"You said 'ok'," he repeated.  
"Jeez," she pulled his head down to tongue his mouth, back arching and moaning as he took control of the kiss.  
Her eyes were half-lidded as he pulled back, "It's a bit soon for me go again," he grinned, "You said 'ok'."  
"Shouldn't kiss me like that then, sport," she squeezed his buttock, keeping her legs around his waist, "I said ok. You want a 'yes'—"  
"I know. I know," he kissed her again, "Should've asked before, if I'd known it'd get you this hot…"  
"How old are you now?" she quipped, looking for her jeans.  
"What's that got to do with anything?" he passed them to her.  
"I'm just wondering how disappointed I should be that it's taken you this long to understand _why_ men propose," she grinned up at him guilelessly.  
"Funny, wiseass," he brushed his fingers along her bruises, then said gently, "I want to marry you. Kids, everything, the whole deal, Clare. I want it, _with you_. Ok?"  
The intensity of his blue-green eyes holding hers made her shiver, "You can't hurt me, Tim. I'm yours, but you gotta keep me. I-"  
"I can do forever if you can," he whispered.  
"Yes. Yes, Tim Gutterson, I will marry you," Clare whispered back, nodding fervently.

* * *

Tim was relaxed when he came in the office after lunch after dropping Clare off at their place, as he was now thinking of it. Art caught him whistling as he was writing up Moss's notification, annunciating for effect, "What the hell?"  
Tim didn't mean to smile up at him, "What, boss?"  
"The whistling, Tim. I don't care how good your nooner was, I've never heard you _whistle _before. I was _happy_ that way," Art said, soft enough the office couldn't hear, but he was pretty sure if Raylan'd been there, he'd have been snickering.  
"Sorry, boss."  
"How was Moss?" Art gestured to his office.  
Tim followed without prompting, closing the door and sitting, his mood faltered a bit, "He persuaded Stark to come clean about Clare. He, effectively, cleared her name."  
"You owe your love life to that psycho? Shit, Tim."  
"I know."  
They looked at each other for a moment.  
"I proposed to Clare."  
"Tell me she's not pregnant," Art shot back.  
"No," Tim tried to look affronted, but he was reminded that the possibility was there, "probably."  
"Jesus, Tim!" Art rubbed his face. "What did I say?"  
"I know. I know. I just-"  
"I've been your age. May have been a while ago, but I know."  
Tim glanced up at his boss, mentor, occasional surrogate father figure, "Sorry, Art."  
"Don't— You're going to marry her?"  
Tim nodded.  
"Don't take this the wrong way. But, son, don't you think it's a bit soon?"  
Tim's turn to rub his face, "That was her point when I asked her not to move out."  
"She-Wait, what?"  
"She talked about getting her own place, said if she stayed in mine she'd decorate-"  
Art suppressed a smile. He'd been in Tim's place.  
"And I asked her to stay."  
"And your way of getting her to stay was to propose?" Art asked skeptically.  
"That came later."  
Art closed his eyes, "Leslie always said a post-coital proposal didn't count."  
"Apparently that's in a handbook somewhere. Clare mentioned it, too," Tim said.  
He took a deep breath, rising, "Got a ring?" Art smiled, taking two glasses down and pouring half an inch of Pappy in each.  
"My grandmother's. My sister said she'd bring it out."  
"When?"  
"Well," Elizabeth had never given him a time frame, which could mean _next year_ or, "Shit. I think she's here."  
"Here. Now?"  
"You don't know Elizabeth, Art. She could have started driving after I called."  
"And you called?"  
"After Graham," Tim opted to shoot himself with his finger rather than say it, which was arguably in even worse taste. But then, these were _his_ prospective in-laws.  
Art held his glass in front of his mouth, smirking, "So, your force-of-nature sister and your new fiancée, who I would argue is a bit of a force of nature _herself,_ are pretty much on a collision course?"  
Tim sipped his Pappy, opting to savor the liquor as much as his impending toe-curling embarrassment. "Yep."  
"And you're still here?"  
"I enlisted to get away from the PMS at home, Art. Lying low is an art form I mastered _young_," Tim continued his sipping as Art adopted a thoughtful expression.

* * *

Clare was surfing the net, looking at laptops versus MacBooks when there was a knock on Tim's door. Clare picked up Tim's Beretta, that he'd taken out and handed her before he left, "just in case." She stood next to the door as whoever-it-was knocked again and she said through the door, "Can I help you?"  
"Are you Clare? I'm Elizabeth. Tim's sister," the voice on the other side of the door chirped.  
Clare unlocked the door, peeking out to verify, as much as she could, that Elizabeth was alone. Opening the door, "Yeah, I'm Clare. Hi."  
Elizabeth was very much like her brother. She was as rail-thin, but her hair was long, and wavy with crayon red highlights. Her eyebrow was pierced, as was one nostril and her Tim-blue-green eyes sparkled the same color as her t-shirt, "So, you're the fugitive that stole my brother's heart? Thought you'd be taller."  
"And limit the kinds of heels I could wear?" Clare deadpanned back.  
Elizabeth grinned approvingly, "And you've even got the gun."  
"Yeah," Clare stepped back, "Sorry, come in. Can I help?"  
Elizabeth shook her head and carted in a duffel bag, guitar case and laptop case, "Naw. This is everything. Well, this and the car. So, you're going to marry my baby brother?"  
"That's the plan," Clare nodded. "This the part where you threaten to spread my corpse over a dozen different counties if I do anything to hurt him?"  
"It is."  
"Ok." Clare looked at Elizabeth expectantly.  
"Oh, am I supposed to come up with a threat because I kind of thought you'd covered it."  
"Yeah, I've got brothers," Clare nodded, "Coffee? Can't offer you milk, but I'm pretty sure the sugar's still good."  
"Tim's still doing his own grocery shopping?"  
"I haven't gotten a car yet. I only stopped being a fugitive a couple of days ago," Clare explained starting coffee.  
"So, you need a car?" Elizabeth said leaning against the doorjamb.  
"Among other things," Clare agreed.  
"So… Wanna go shopping?"  
"You need to ask?"

* * *

Elizabeth drove them to Piggly Wiggly, where they spent a bloody fortune on groceries, wine and stocked up on Jack Daniels and Jim Beam for Elizabeth's bourbon and ice cream shakes.  
They chatted about cars, Elizabeth's romantic history, Tim's childhood affection for Adam West's Batman ('natnan' was his first word), and Clare's time as a fugitive. "I'm saving some questions until I get to see Tim's face when I ask 'em," Elizabeth explained, cutting Clare off from a story.  
Clare giggled, carrying bags in from the backseat of Elizabeth's vintage Camaro, "I'd expect nothing less."  
It was near enough to five when they returned to Tim's that Elizabeth started on bourbon shakes as Clare made room in the freezer. Elizabeth cut her off at cleaning the cabinets with a shake and the line, "Boys don't learn if you do everything _for _them."  
"Are we saying they learn?" Clare cocked her head. "He's got an empty can in there where the pineapple _corroded _through the can and left a mess on the shelf! _Learn?_ Bah!"  
Elizabeth snorted into her butter pecan concoction, "My brother!" she reached into her pocket, "He mention this yet?"  
She'd placed on the table between them an antique ring. Shallow princess cut diamonds set in platinum on a slim gold band. Couldn't be more than three or four carats total, but they were sparkly antique carats.  
"Not specifically, no," Clare whispered, afraid to pick it up.  
Elizabeth grasped her hand and put the ring in Clare's palm. "It was our mom's mom. Probably not Sullivan expensive, but it has great karma."  
Clare nodded numbly.  
"It's got an inscription, H.J. & N.R. 1946, our grandparents, Henry Jay and Natalya Romanov, she was a refugee after the war. It's where they met, Germany, at the end of it. Always said they fell in love over a chocolate bar. They were really happy together, don't even think it was the chocolate either," Elizabeth looked at Clare intensely.  
"No pressure," Clare quipped, still gaping at her engagement ring. "Tim would be pissed if he knew you were doing this, wouldn't he?"  
"Oh, yeah. _Livid_."  
"Needs to be done though, huh?"  
"My baby brother. Family ring. Like you said, 'no pressure'."  
Clare smiled at the ring before glancing up to Elizabeth, saying as simply as she could, "I love your brother. 'No pressure'... But _he's _supposed to put this on my finger." She set it back on the table between them and took a slurp of her shake.  
Elizabeth grinned, looking creepily like her brother, "He was so _concerned_ that I'd like you."  
"So, there's this old ugly-ass Camaro out front," Tim shouted on his way in, "Oh... Well, it would be my sister's."  
"Hey, there, kiddo," Elizabeth stood to hug her baby brother.  
He caught sight of the ring on the table then, "Hey, um, I thought you were giving that to _me_ to give to Clare?"  
"She wanted me to be fully aware of the history involved since all you care about is getting in my pants," Clare explained, downing more butter pecan and Jim Beam.  
"I confess, I did have plans resembling that later," Tim said, kissing Clare's forehead, "Remind me about them."  
She smiled, "Elizabeth?"  
"I'm gone," Elizabeth took no more hint as she grabbed her glass and hollered from the living room, "I'll be in the guest room, with headphones."  
Tim smiled, kneeling rather than taking her vacated seat, "I like her so much sometimes."  
"She's nice," Clare said loyally.  
"Yeah. She's a peach. Ok, then," he pulled her left hand over and slid the ring on. It was a little loose, but that could be fixed, Tim mused. "Clare Noel Lidet, will you marry me?"  
Clare fisted her hand to keep the ring on, wavering between responding sarcastically with "Let me think about it..." or saccharine-sweet with "Of course, God, yes," which seemed like over-kill as this was his second proposal of the day. She settled for kissing him deeply and sloppily, standing and allowing him to sit her up on his table, "Yes. Yes. Yes."  
He chuckled like he didn't have a millisecond of sheer terror until she'd kissed him. "Clare-"  
"I love you, Tim," she whispered.  
Tim cut her off, "We can't have unprotected sex anymore."  
"Well, _that's_ not what I was expecting you to say."  
"Art's worried if we get pregnant too soon."  
"Oh. _Art's_ worried?"  
"He may have thought I proposed because you're pregnant," Tim confessed.  
"Wow. Your boss thinks I'm pregnant? Um…" Clare processed this before conceding that the absent Art may have a point, "Ok, we'll be careful. We can do that. Grocery bag on the stairs has condoms. We don't even have to go upstairs."  
He pressed his lips to avoid smiling and rolled his eyes. "Y'know, I've never had sex with anyone on this table," he said, kissing her.  
"Well, hurry up so we can christen the table then," she said to his lips, reaching to set her shake on the counter above his washer and dryer, so they wouldn't spill it.  
"This her bourbon and ice cream shake?" he said eyeing it.  
"Butter pecan. Are we having sex or are we celebrating our engagement _chastely_?" Clare said 'chastely' like it was a dirty word, peeved they were still dressed.  
"My sister is upstairs."  
"We made love with my cousins on the next floor."  
"You really do have a table fetish, don't you?" he sipped her shake. A little sweet for him, but Elizabeth had done worse.  
"Yes. _Oh_, is _that_ it?"  
"What? I'm quite fond of your table fetish. Sincerely fond of it, really."  
"You're thinkin' because we're engaged and your boss is concerned about us that we have to be boring and only have sex in beds now, aren't you?" Clare said, looking at the ring flopping around on her finger. "Oh, hell, give me a minute," she got up and went into the half bath outside the kitchen.  
"I do not think that we can only have sex in beds!" Tim pondered how indignant he sounded saying that and smiled. It was an acceptable indignity, he supposed. "Clare!"  
Clare had been wrapping a sliver of medical tape around the thin gold band, "It'll hold until we get to a jeweler," she said as he came behind her, "I'll need to get a chain to keep it on when I'm working anyway. I doubt it'll take to gloves."  
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her with him, stumbling backwards over the edge of the couch. "You accused me of something."  
"Am I wrong?" she couldn't pick her head up to look at him anymore than she could stop smiling as he held her back to his front.  
"I like having sex in beds—you can roll over and go to sleep. _But_—"  
"And duck out to hassle your girl's relatives, too?"  
"That, too." He conceded and moved on, "That in no way means I have anything _near_ a problem with your table fetish," he unbuttoned her jeans and slipped his hand inside her panties.  
She moved against him, breathing his name with a soft moan.  
"Later, you're not there yet."  
He started to twist a finger into her just as Elizabeth started down the stairs, empty glass in one hand, the other covering her eyes, "Really, just two seconds!"  
The mood was severely maimed.  
Tim's hand stilled and withdrew. Clare's moan this time was less than pleasurable as she buttoned her jeans back up. "You said you liked her," Tim accused pre-emptively.  
"She's _your_ sister." Clare stood, beckoning for him to follow her, "C'mon, vanilla, take me to a bed. Elizabeth, we're going to bed!" She picked up the grocery bag of Trojans and toothpaste as she went upstairs, she was out of sight when Tim caught the sweater she'd removed to throw at him, at the base of the stairs.  
"Elizabeth, I'm locking my door. Pretend we're not here, no matter _how_ much Mom texts you to interrupt my sex life," Tim cautioned, trailing after Clare.  
"You know your girl answered the door with your Beretta?" Elizabeth stuck her head in from the kitchen.  
Tim stifled his smirk before he turned to his sister, "Yeah?"  
"Mom'll love her."  
"I know. Wait until she meets the grandkids," Tim nodded before disappearing up the stairs.  
"Children? _Ew_," Elizabeth shuddered delicately before settling on Tim's as-yet-unchristened couch and grabbing his remote.

* * *

Clare was naked but for her engagement ring when Tim came in. She pulled off his belt as he walked in and he set his badge and side-arms on his dresser, "You know what tomorrow is?"  
"You're gonna say something other than Saturday aren't you?" Clare quipped, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off his arms.  
"I'm going to say 'my day off'," he quipped, pulling her legs around his waist and walking her to his bed before kicking off his shoes and jeans.  
"So, we don't have to get out of bed, really?" Clare reached for the box on his nightstand.  
"That's the plan," he agreed.  
So, they didn't get out of bed.

A/N In my defense, I had no idea it would be this long when I started... thanks to those who've stuck with it!


	38. Chapter 38

Elizabeth had ordered a pizza and was enjoying a "Die Hard" marathon of Tim's DVD's when there was a knock on the door. She palmed her own Sig from her bag, their father may not have liked guns but the Gutterson kids had a fond respect for 'the great equalizer.' Checking the peephole, she saw a Stetson and opened the door in curiosity. "Hello, Cowboy."  
"Hello," Cowboy blinked. He checked the address on the side of the townhouse and looked back at her, "Is Tim or Clare home?"  
"Why?" Cowboy was damn cute, all dark eyes and drawl. He irrationally reminded her of that John Fogerty song, "Centerfield…"

_"Roundin' third and headed for home, it's a brown-eyed, handsome man…"_

__"Who're you?" Cowboy finally got out.  
"You wanna turn that around for me, Cowboy?"  
He kept his eyes on her, pulling his credentials from his belt, "Raylan Givens… I didn't know Tim had a sister."  
She grinned at him. Tim kept his mouth shut for a reason. Cowboy drawl _reeked_ of emotional havoc. But she'd been stable for a while now and change is good… But that might be the butter pecan bourbon talking. "Elizabeth. Come in, Raylan. They should be getting hungry soon." Raylan kept his eyes on her as he stepped in, "Would you like somethin' to drink, Raylan?"  
"Sure, Elizabeth. What do you have?"  
"What do you want, Raylan?" she knew Tim would kill her for flirting with one of his colleagues... but.  
Raylan pursed his lips, "You aren't intending on _going_ anywhere tonight, are you?"  
She poured herself more butter pecan bourbon and gave Raylan some, too. "No, Raylan, I'm not _going_ anywhere tonight. Are you?"  
"Well," he sipped the concoction, "I'm more of a vanilla man myself. What is this?"  
"My current favorite milkshake." She gestured to the blender and extraneous materials.  
"You mix good bourbon and ice cream?"  
"A few of my favorite things."  
"Mine too," he nodded, still eyeing the blender. "Favorite things." Turning back to Elizabeth with another swig, "Um, how long until Tim's available?"  
Elizabeth walked back to the couch with a little more swing in her hips than usual and plopped in the middle of the couch, "We-ell... They've been up there through two movies and Samuel L. Jackson's introduction. They're bound to get hungry soon. Clare seems to have an appetite even without the rabbit behavior."  
Raylan's eyebrows went up at "rabbit behavior," but he followed her to the couch and sat next to her, keeping a couple of inches between them at least. "You like her?"  
"My sister-in-law. Give me a few weeks. Hell, give them a few weeks," she smiled. "Yeah. I like her."  
"She's had a rough couple of years. Tim's been in the middle of 'em. I think she needs time."  
"He's not taking advantage of any vulnerability if he's sticking around," she pointed out. "And while I love my brother to death, he's _hardly_ a peach."  
"Very true," Raylan conceded to a swat on the arm. "I know she loves him though. Tough, too."  
"You like her."  
"Yep. Might even suit each other, too. I'm not a good judge of that part apparently."  
"Me either. My ex-husband and I suited each other, I thought... Still in therapy from it."  
"The divorce or the marriage?"  
Elizabeth snorted into her ice cream, "Never pondered _that_ specific point."  
"I knocked up my ex-wife."  
"Before or after the divorce?"  
"After she was in the middle of divorcing the guy she left me for," he sipped, looking for alcohol.  
"Y'know, I'd_ heard of_ that phenomenon..."

* * *

"Mmm," Clare curled toward him.  
"I'm tired." He said, not rolling away. "I love you and I'll love you again later, but I'm tired."  
She burst out laughing, before kissing him, "Baby, I love you _but_ I like bein' able to walk..."  
"Fun-ny," he started saying, going to tickle her belly. Instead Clare didn't laugh but moved closer in his hands, molding her body to his to whisper in his ear, "I'm starving and I had to do the shopping. Feed me."  
He pulled back with a scowl, "I spend all day at work-" he cut himself off as she snorted her derision, "Fine. But you've got to come with me." He searched for his boxers and jeans as she pulled on his shirt and waggled her one of her fingers for him to follow her down the stairs as the other tried to comb through and tame her hair.  
She let him catch her on the stairs, his hands toying with the buttons on the dark green shirt he'd worn to the office earlier, it hid everything on her slight body but he knew she was naked under it, which was enough for him. He was nibbling under her ear when she said, "Hi, Raylan. Elizabeth."  
"_The fuck?_" Tim stopped nibbling to scowl at his partner and his sister, thankfully both dressed.  
"Hi, Clare," Raylan gave a little nod to her as he stood, then to Tim, "So, I spoke to Duffy—"  
"As was the plan. I remember," Tim crossed his arms over his bare chest. "Was it _that_ interesting?"  
"Not until I heard from Art that Moss got Stark to confess to implicating Clare," Raylan said.  
_"And..."_  
"It matters because Duffy's going to go after Moss now," Clare finished, walking to the kitchen door.  
"So-" Tim started, pouting a little as Clare narrowed her eyes at him and he followed her to the kitchen, saying, "So we get to protect Moss as we try to build case against him? Because we aren't busy enough?"  
"_Babe?_" Clare held out her hand and pulled Tim with her into the kitchen, holding up one finger for Raylan. Whispering, she said, "Moss is still bein' investigated for collusion. I don't know what the SEC is going to say about his and Graham's deal, but are you really gonna turn down the chance to arrest him?"  
"You don't want him arrested," Tim pointed out with finality.  
Clare swallowed, "I _do_ kind of feel like I owe my freedom to him on one level, but—"  
"Graham killed himself to not die like Stark and that guard—"  
"_Which Moss must be responsible for, so why can't we let Duffy handle him?_ Is _that_ your point?"  
Tim scowled, leaning against his counter, "He's a murdering creep. I don't care if he has a crush on you. In fact, I'm all the more for Duffy _because_ he has a crush on you."  
Clare squeezed her eyes shut, she had no argument for that one, damn him. One deep breath in and she felt his arms around her, "Do you want him alive?"  
"Honestly? I don't give a damn. I just... Am I... Is being with me fucking up your job? Because that's how I'm feeling," she tried not to snap. "Can we just—"  
"After we eat," Tim finished for her, pecking her on the top of her head. "And no, you don't fuck up my job."  
"I'm just keeping it interesting now?"  
"You having second thoughts about that ring?"  
She tilted her head up to look at him as she said, very seriously, "You'll have to cut it off my finger."  
"I love you, too. Go tell Raylan we'll keep Moss alive unless we think we'll get enough to put Duffy away, too."  
"Why? Are you cooking?"  
"I have to see what ya'll've done to my kitchen. I can probably handle steak and eggs while I'm at it," he kissed her, pushing her out towards Elizabeth and Raylan.  
"Seriously? You left a can in your pantry to corrode and it was _empty_ on the shelf, and you're going to cook?"  
"Out of my kitchen, woman," Tim's head was in his freezer.  
"Your milk was from last year!" she stood in the doorway with her arms folded, "Elizabeth, can your brother cook?"  
There were exchanged glances in the next room before Elizabeth replied, "Cook what?"  
"Please, tell her I have lived this long by developing a few kitchen skills," Tim hollered, setting a couple of rib eyes in a pan.  
Raylan stood in the doorway with Clare when Tim looked back up, "You gonna comment, too?"  
"I'll back you for a cup of coffee and one of those," Raylan offered.  
"Done."  
Beer in hand, Raylan took to action, "Alright, ladies, give the man some space. American hero at work here," he shooed Clare and Elizabeth out. Gesturing for Raylan to make his own coffee, which he did.  
"Thank you," Tim said, as he went to look in his dryer for a shirt, straightening when he saw it was empty, "Woman, where are my clothes?"

"In the basket. You're welcome," Clare shot back from the living room.

Raylan didn't bother to squeeze his lips together to keep from smirking.

Tim grumbled as he palmed through the basket above his dryer for a shirt, settling on a wife-beater, and went back to watching the steaks sizzle on the heating stove. "Over easy, ok?"  
"Please. So, was that a ring on Clare's-"  
"Yeah. Elizabeth brought it with her from Raleigh today, probably left last night after I called her about it."  
"Pretty."  
Tim's eyes flickered to nonchalant-Raylan. "Did Art send you over to talk to me about this?"  
Raylan snorted, "Like he'd trust me with that?"  
"Yeah. He would. You may be off the rails but you still 'taught firearms together at Glynco'," sufficiently assured the steaks were under control, Tim got the eggs from the refrigerator while watching Raylan pour his coffee nervously. "So, is it the 'moving-too-fast' argument you're taking or the 'think-about-your-career-and-take-your-time' angle, you're working?" he asked softly enough Clare wouldn't hear.  
"Honestly? Neither. I like Clare. I think you'll be fine once we're working on something that doesn't involve her _and_ I think she might get you." Raylan shrugged, "If this creep Moss saved her-"  
"I don't trust him and I don't like him-"  
"He's not competition, Tim. She-"  
"It's not that I'm jealous. It's that," Tim paused looking for the right words, "he's a predator and Clare's his prey. He _likes_ her, like Hannibal _liked_ Clarice Starling. She's a toy that interests him and it scares the hell out of me that one day she'll have the chance to... I don't know. Disappoint his crazed expectations, and he'll hurt her for it," he finished softly.  
"He's stalking your girl?" Raylan whispered.  
"Near as I can figure. He's this strange protector for _now_, manipulating things to her benefit, but for how long?"  
"And what about you?"  
Deep breath. "He never counted on me," Tim said. "What I keep hearing; 'No one figured on me and her being in those woods together'."  
"Moss could target you, Tim," Raylan pointed out, earning himself an "I know, you moron" look from Tim. "This is a field I have a little more experience in."  
Tim conceded the point with a nod and flipped the steaks in their pans. "Carry on."  
"Clare didn't have the ring when ya'll saw Moss earlier, right?"  
"Yeah. You think that'll convince him to make a move? Naw, Moss... _approves _of me. In his way."  
"Would he still approve if he thought you and Clare were rushing into a wedding without protecting her interests?"  
Tim turned to look at Raylan, "English?"  
"Your girl has got money. And position. Come divorce time, you could get half of that money and position, without a pre-nup. If you pretend to rush into a wedding, it could provoke Moss... Look, he's not Duffy and we can always wait for him to take Moss out, but Wynn Duffy has not impressed me with competence of late," Raylan explained slowly.  
"Just to clarify... You want me too rush an already _fairly_ sped-up relationship—one that I would like to work, by the way- and get married... _just_ to piss off the sociopath that likes my girl?" Tim broke the eggs into the pans and gestured to a cabinet next to Raylan, "Plates should still be in there."  
"So, you'll _propose_ at the drop of a hat but _'let's take the engagement longer'_?" Raylan sneered.  
"I already had to convince her not to find an apartment, Raylan. Clare just got her life back and; yeah, I'm being selfish not wanting to lose her when I just got her, but I won't screw this up." Tim was adamant.  
"Eggs."  
Tim twitched and scowled, turning to flip the eggs before they burnt, "I can't do it, Raylan. I've... Look, I'm not you. My 'any-port-in-a-storm' was just that, a port in a storm. No emotion beyond attraction. No concern beyond disease and pregnancy. And, usually, there was no evolution to that arrangement, which I was fine with, but... Clare is... special to me. Ok? I can't lose her, now I've got her. Can you get that?"  
Raylan pretended to ponder this while Tim plated the steak and eggs, waiting until Tim had put the hot pans in the sink before pointing out, "And if she '_disappoints'_ Moss before you get around to suits and white dresses?"  
Tim set the plates on the counter and turned to Raylan with a pensive expression, "Nice timing on that."  
"On what?"  
Tim took a half step and a swing and Raylan and his coffee were on the floor.

Palming the currently explosive pain in his jaw, Raylan looked up at Tim who was squatting above him, whispering softly when he was sure he had Raylan's attention, "Don't threaten her."  
"I'm not the threat here," Raylan got out, working his jaw. He'd had worse and Tim certainly hadn't hit him as hard as he could have, but it still hurt like a bitch. He managed to continue gently, "You wanna save her. Then save her. I'm just trying to help you both."  
Clare, in jeans under Tim's shirt now, and Elizabeth met them at the doorway, "What the hell, bébé?"  
"I slipped," Raylan said ironically, looking at his lost coffee. "It was very sad."  
"Sad?" Elizabeth asked with a raised eyebrow.  
"Sudden," Raylan corrected. "It was very sudden. I lost my coffee."  
"Uh huh," Clare said, squinting at Raylan's eyes and shooting Tim a look before getting Raylan a bag of blueberries from the freezer for his face.  
"Food's ready," Tim offered cheerily, gesturing at the plates.


	39. Chapter 39

No true plot advancement, but there's some smut at the end.

* * *

Tim threw a few paper towels on the coffee and spared a thanks that the mug was unbroken when he put in the sink. Raylan grabbed a plate and his blueberries and sat, watching Tim clean up as Clare gathered silverware and Elizabeth shot him dirty looks, convinced Tim had cause to hit him and her baby brother could do no wrong. As is Raylan's head didn't hurt enough already.  
Elizabeth supplemented her ice cream with half a steak and more yolk than fried egg before she decided it was time for bed. "I'm going to bed before I turn into a pumpkin," she announced, rising with her empty shake glass balanced on her plate, "Clare," she pecked Clare on the cheek before giving her brother half a hug and ruffling his hair with her free hand. She gave Raylan a dirty look but otherwise ignored him, as she had through the whole meal.  
From the kitchen she called back, "You know what's really awesome? Someone else gets to remind Tim to do the dishes."  
Tim rolled his eyes as Clare snorted and Raylan pressed his lips together. Elizabeth had dropped flirting with, or even paying much attention to, Raylan as soon as Tim had hit him. Sisterly loyalty.  
Raylan and Tim were still at whatever impasse had led to the swing when Clare kissed Tim on the cheek and told Raylan good night around ten. Tim held her hand as she walked away and waited until she was all the way upstairs before saying, "Are you gonna push this?"  
"It's a faster way to remove a threat. You want to wait until Moss is ready to make his move or do you want to make it for him?"  
Bastard. It really sucked not being the logical one in the argument. Tim sighed.  
"Clare's a tough chick. Elizabeth and I were talking about it. Just think about it for a day. Ok?"  
Tim continued glaring, motionless.  
Raylan finished his coffee and collected the remaining plates, letting Tim stew. He was running water over the plates before he heard Tim from the next room, "I'll talk about it with her, ok?"  
He turned off the water, "All I ask. You can finish your own dishes."  
"And here I was thinking you were earning your keep," Tim drawled, taking over at the sink as Raylan dried his hands.  
"Hell, no," he snorted to Tim's amusement. "I like your sister," was his parting shot.  
"Go ahead."  
_Wait a second_. "What does that mean?"  
Tim smiled, "I hit you. Elizabeth is many things, but no one has ever faulted her loyalty. You're not getting near my sister... Even if you say she looks like Ava Gardner."  
He seemed so relaxed about it, Raylan was a little disappointed. "Fine, then. She's more of a punk-rock Barbara Stanwyck anyway."  
"If I find out that's insulting after I imdb it, I'm loosening teeth."  
"You're such a _good widdle brother_," Raylan baby talked, resulting in getting splashed by dishwater, "Call me after you talk to her."  
"Yeah, yeah. Get outta here."  
"I'm gone," he was at the door when Tim came around the corner to say, "Thanks, Ray."  
"Return the favor sometime."  
"You're a dick." Tim could hear Raylan's responding chuckle on his way out.  
He let his mind wander as he loaded the dishwasher, and found himself wiping down counters when he was interrupted by Clare clearing her throat. She was, sans jeans, in the doorway with one eyebrow raised, watching him.  
"What?"  
"I've never seen you domestic. It's new," she smiled, leaning on the doorframe. "I thought you'd be coming back to bed. I heard Raylan leave over an hour ago."  
He rinsed his hands before moving to slide them around her waist, she stopped them, intertwining their fingers, "I didn't realize it'd been so long. What is it?"  
She took a deep breath, as if weighing whether or not she wanted to ask the question, "Are you going to tell me what Raylan said to make you hit him?"  
He pursed his lips, "Eventually."  
She nodded, seemingly satisfied, "Ok." She tugged his hand, "Coming to bed?"  
"Is that it?"  
"Yeah," she cocked her head at him, "You want me to push it?"  
Sort of. "Raylan wants us to push Moss into making a move."  
"Ok."  
"By rushing the wedding."  
"Ok."  
"That's it? I push you into an engagement after you've been back in civilization for what? Three? Four days? And all the reaction I get from the idea of rushing the wedding is 'ok'?" It was a bit of a letdown, really.  
Clare pursed her lips, "Bèbè, I let you push it because I'm sure about us. Aren't you?" She fondled the engagement ring.  
He leaned into his responding kiss, pushing her back into the living room, "Stupid question."  
She kissed him back, sweet and teasing, "Then come to bed and we'll talk about it tomorrow. You can explain to me all the angles."  
Tim followed her back to bed.

* * *

She didn't doze off, but lay next to Tim as he drew circles with his fingertips across her back. "Tim, did you propose so we could get married later or so we could be engaged?"  
"Huh?"  
Clare pushed herself up on her elbows, "Are we just engaged or are we engaged to get married?"  
"You askin' 'cause I don't want to rush to wedding?"  
"I'm askin' 'cause you hit Raylan-"  
"To be fair, I want to hit Raylan most of the time. And it's the implication that us rushing the wedding will spur Moss on to trying to kill me, is the problem."  
"But Edgar likes you. Quite creepy really, if I think about it."  
He tickled her side, trying to keep a scowl on, "Funny."  
She giggled and rolled and he chased her the inches she went. She turned it around, going for his middle, until he caught her wrists above her head, "Alright. Uncle."  
She was gasping on her back when he kissed her, coming up for air she whispered, "Could just say you didn't want to talk about it."  
"It's-"  
Clare covered his mouth. "No. We're not talking about it. See. Not talking."  
He looked down at her with such tenderness in his eyes, Clare couldn't move, but to pull her hand away from his mouth, "I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. _I think_. It's still a fairly new idea for me-"  
"Tim-"  
His turn to cover her mouth, "I don't want to screw this up. I know I've rushed it- more so than I'd really intended to rush it since Elizabeth was _really_ on the ball with that ring-"  
Clare smiled behind his hand.  
"I don't want to screw this up." He pulled his hand back to buss her bruised cheek, letting his fingers trail down her scar. "Haven't you been marked by this shit enough?"  
"I love you. And I don't want to screw it up either, baby," Clare said, "How do you see this going? We going to shack up for a few months or years or whatever, then what? We get married and have two point whatever kids and raise them up and live happily ever after?"  
"Clare-"  
"We both know that's shit. Things don't work out. There are no happily ever after's. People we love die. We both know this."  
"Grab it while we can? That your plan?"  
"Worked so far."  
Tim refused to smile at that so he turned away, "That what you were doing when you turned down the easy life in Belize?"  
Clare took a breath. And hesitated.  
"Is the great Dr. Lidet dodging a question?"  
"Not dodging, no. Just advising you that you don't want to hear that story any more than I wanna hear about anyone else you'd been in this bed with," she said gently.  
Tim sobered, "Fair enough. He why you didn't stay or why you wanted to?"  
"Tim-"  
He rose, "Not asking. Don't want to know. Bathroom, go to sleep, babe."  
Clare scowled at the ceiling and waited.

* * *

Tim took his time before returning to the bedroom. "Baby, I never slept with him," was the first thing he heard in the dark.  
"I don't want to hear this, do I?" he leant against the doorframe, where he could just barely make out that she was sitting up with the sheet around her breasts.  
"His name was Enrique-"  
"Well, that's charming." He crossed his arms.  
"He was a cardiologist outside of Dangriga. He was... Good to me when I got there. Very understanding. Got me my job, apartment. He was sweet and listened to me. Shoulder to cry on when I needed one."  
"Very sweet of him," he glared at his ceiling. "Am I going to want to kill anyone when this is over?"  
"So, when he asked me to go out dancing with him I said yes."  
"Dancing with Enrique, nice." Tim seemed deeply involved in his major hobby of ceiling exploration.  
"And that was when I realized I was screwed," Clare waited until she was sure she had his full attention, "Because there was more heat when you were holding my wrist in front of that damn fire that I had salsa dancing with Enrique."  
"Nothing happened?"  
"Nothin' happened and I started heading north again."  
Tim nodded, "So, I could find you in...about five months after you ran?"  
Clare nodded.  
"Guatemala, maybe?"  
"It's a border country," she nodded.  
"When you say nothing happened you actually mean..."  
"Would have been a bit like choosing a wine cooler over absinthe. _Not even worth the glass_." Clare patted the bed next to her, "I knew what I wanted. Still know what I want. Are you coming to bed now?"  
Tim nodded, kissing her as he crawled in. "I want you too."  
"I told you, you can't hurt me, Tim," she whispered when she could breathe again, clinging to him.  
"I know. I won't," he breathed, hands ghosting over her.

She looked up at him, holding him and warning him with her eyes, "I've loved you too damn long, Tim. What do you want to do here?"  
Tim scowled, then pinched the bridge of his nose, "I wanna make love to you. Then sleep. Then with full stomachs, in the light of day, we can run through this subject again. How's that?"  
Clare took a deep breath, something new in the pit of her belly, "You said it first."  
"Huh," Tim paused in lying next to her.  
"You said "I love you" first."  
He reached for her, pulling her to him and wrapping himself around her, "I do love you, idiot." He kissed her head, "You're mine. I love you, Clare. I just want you safe. Us safe."  
Clare tilted her head back, "Tim-"  
"Yeah, it does exist. I make 'safe' exist. It is, _literally_, my job. Let me make us safe. I'll find a way, ok? We can rush the wedding or I can find another way and we can take our time. Just trust me?"  
Clare nodded, eyes full of doubt, "We rush the wedding, it'll end badly anyway."  
"Oh?"  
"Do we not remember that Chris is only one of my brothers?" she quirked an eyebrow.  
Tim winced, laying back, pulling her with him, "Jackie never liked me anyway."  
"If he only knew," she agreed, sliding her hand down his chest, feeling his muscles tense beneath her fingertips and watching him stiffen. His hand trailed a lazy squiggle down her spine before pulling her thigh so she could straddle him. "Lazy," she muttered, moving to nibble his collarbone while one hand wrapped his cock and pulled.  
Tim had a throaty moan and chuckle before reaching for one of the condoms on his nightstand, and tearing it open with his free hand and his teeth. Clare was occupying her mouth with his throat when he moved to slip it on and she took it from him. Sliding her body father under the sheets and letting her tongue trail down his torso, dragging to dip into his navel, before lapping softly at his beading tip.  
Tim let himself buck at her mouth gently, watching her face as she took him. He gripped the bed sheets to keep his hands occupied, as her eyes met his for the brief moment before they rolled back in his head, "Clare?"  
Clare flicked her tongue as his tip again before replying conversationally, "Yeah, babe?" and dragging her nails across his hips.  
Tim bit the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting, either to her tone or her hands, before he said, with near equal nonchalance, "Either do something with that rubber or give it back so I can fuck you properly."  
She moved the tip of her tongue along the end of him until he growled. Clare managed to put the condom on him between giggles before he tackled her, tossing blanket and pillow alike to the floor. "You are a deeply," he said penetrating her to her soft moan, "difficult woman."  
Clare's eyes fluttered but didn't open as she whispered gruffly, "Thought you said something about fucking me properly?"  
"Then you decided to tease," he shifted her leg for a better angle and she bucked against him with a whimper, and her nails dug in his ass, "Tim." He dropped his mouth to suckle her neck and thrust into her as her pinched her left nipple gently.  
The nipple tweak was too much for Clare, she was aching enough with him within her—her eyes were permanently rolled back in her head- but the tease of his finger on her breast had her begging, "C'mon, babe, I was gonna get you off however..."  
He shifted into her and she moaned, "Are you implying I'm-"  
Clare bucked against him, cutting him off, "Fuck now. Talk later-"  
He obliged. Keeping her eyes rolled back, they went at each other like animals, screwing like rabbits, coming together noisily and breathlessly. Collapsed on top of her, Tim heard her say, "I love you, even if you can't decide if you're a tease or a stevedore."  
He kept himself within her as he rolled on his back, holding her to him, "What's a stevedore?"  
Clare picked her head up to look at him under her lashes and say, "You're an adult... Google it," and dropped her head onto his chest.  
He looked at his phone, all the way over on his nightstand and reached futilely, whining, "What's the point of dating a doctor if she's not going to enjoy lording the fact that she knows more over me?"  
Clare rolled her eyes and sat up, still straddling him, "A stevedore, young Gutterson, is a term for a managing dockworker. Y'know, strong, well-built, excellent work ethic..."  
"And you're applying this to my sexual proclivities?" Tim smirked, "We should discuss this further..."


End file.
